The Iniquities of Others
by M.J.Ellsworth
Summary: Alternate ending to Blade Runners, episode 9x16. A vindictive Crowley gives Sam a taste of his own medicine. Abaddon learns the truth, and vows to restore the rightful King of Hell. Warning: This story concerns addiction and Hurt!Sam.
1. Blood

_**Author**_ _ **'s Note:**_ _So I've been meaning to write this alternate ending for awhile now, and couldn't wait any longer. I apologize if it's been done before, but I looked, and couldn't find anything similar. For now, it's just a oneshot, but depending on how you respond, I might come back to it later. We'll see what happens. In the meantime, please read and review! :-)_

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ _I do not own Supernatural or any of the characters. This is purely for fan enjoyment._

 **SPN**

It was a crisp spring morning. The ground was muddy, the trees were bare, and the chill was invigorating. For the first time in weeks, perhaps months, Crowley felt calm and self-possessed—as the rightful King of Hell should be. While the boys fussed over their precious car, he stood back and weighed his options.

" _Be afraid. Your Queen."_

Please. Crowley feared no one. Not Abaddon, and certainly not these two whelps. How dare they treat him with such contempt? Especially Moose. He would still be Gadreel's bitch if not for Crowley. Didn't that at least warrant a thank you? But no, Sam would never thank him. He was much too sore from that girl Sarah's death, and he had a way of holding grudges.

Crowley didn't mind Sam's hatred. It came with the territory. But Sam's ridicule? That was crossing a line. After all, Crowley didn't ask to be injected with human blood. His addiction was their fault, and they had the nerve to criticize him? To call him pathetic? Oh, hell no.

When Sam (as predictable as ever) steered his volatile brother towards the demon, Crowley took preemptive measures. Flicking his wrist, he telekinetically hurled them against the Impala, pleased to see the First Blade drop to the ground. Dean groaned, straining impotently against his immobilization. What a turn on.

"You know, boys," Crowley began, feigning regret. "I have to say, I'm disappointed. We make a good team, and between us, I really believe we can… oh what's the word? Gank Abaddon." Dean rolled his eyes while Sam fumed. Crowley sighed. "I thought we could be friends, but the more I sober up, the more I see the truth. You're just using me. And now you wish to kill me. Well, I hate to break it to you, but I'm not that disposable."

He summoned the First Blade to his hand, which clearly alarmed Dean.

"It's no good to you without me."

Crowley met his gaze steadily. "Yes, but as long as I have it, it's no good to you." He turned to regard the younger brother. "Sam." It wasn't like Crowley to speak his actual name, and Sam stiffened, obviously uncomfortable. "Would you care to apologize?"

"Go to Hell."

Crowley smirked. "You know, I tried being nice to you. Even saved your life. But I can't seem to rekindle the bond we shared inside that church." Dean blinked, glancing at Sam in confusion. "Maybe it's cause you failed the trial, and I remind you of that. Or maybe you're just guarding yourself against intimacy. I wouldn't be surprised. How many times were you violated by that sorry excuse for an angel?"

"Shut up!" Sam snapped, breathing heavily.

Crowley relished his distress. "I'll never forget that night. You changed my life forever, Moose. I appreciate your intervention, but I'm still addicted. I'll always be addicted." He crossed the distance between them. "Even now, I'm fighting the urge to spill your blood. To take it all in; every last drop." Sam braced himself while Crowley traced the cut on his cheek with the First Blade. True, the weapon might be powerless without the Mark of Cain… but it was still sharp.

"Crowley," Dean growled. "That's enough. We get it."

"No, I don't think you do," he replied, sparing a brief glance at the older brother. Dean was livid. Twice in one day, he was forced to watch his enemies harass Sam—and nothing was more dangerous. Crowley would be wise to stop… but then he wouldn't be the King of Hell. He focused back on his quarry. "After everything you put me through, I deserve an apology. Not to mention your gratitude. So ask for my forgiveness, or deal with the consequences."

Sam scoffed. "I don't think so."

Crowley leaned in close. "Why? Cause you're so much better than me? Let's just see about that." He promptly turned the blade on himself, slicing his own palm—the sudden burst of pain was nothing compared to the horrified expression on Sam's face. His eyes widened, and he shook his head in a panic.

"You're kidding, right?"

Dean likewise objected. "Crowley, you're not this stupid!"

"Consider it poetic justice. You made me a bloody addict. I'm just returning the favor." Stepping back, Crowley waved his arm and tossed Sam to the ground. He pinned him down with extra force.

"Crowley, stop!" Dean shouted helplessly. "Just think about this!"

"Oh, I have," Crowley assured him. He straddled Sam's chest, planting his knees on the boy's arms—not that he could move them. He tried, squirming miserably, but was no match for the crushing weight of the demon's powers. Crowley took a moment to bask in Sam's predicament. "You can deny it all you want, Moose. But deep down, you're looking forward to this."

"Damn it, Crowley!" Dean renewed his efforts to break free. "All right, we're sorry! I'm sorry! Now let him go, you bastard!"

"If you do this," Sam said with a quiver in his voice. "I won't just exorcize you. I'll kill you."

Crowley ruffled his hair. "Don't worry. You've been clean so long, I reckon you'll need time to readjust to your abilities. Meanwhile, I can teleport in the blink of an eye." Sam bucked, twisting his head away and clenching his mouth shut, but Crowley was patient and relentless. Concentrating, he barely registered Dean's threats as he pried open Sam's jaw.

"Easy does it…" He was meticulous, making sure his blood spilled all the way into Sam's throat. Naturally, the boy gagged, but Crowley clamped his hand over his mouth and waited for him to break. "I hope this teaches you not to judge the iniquities of others. You're just as tainted as we are, Moose. And you will _never_ redeem yourself."

Dean was furious. "You listen to me, you son of a bitch! If it's the last thing I do, I'm going to rip you apart!"

Crowley chuckled, watching Sam's defiance melt into shame. Satisfied, he smeared his blood, none too gently, over Sam's face and climbed to his feet. "Now then…" He met Dean's gaze. "Why don't I hang onto the First Blade while you locate Abaddon? Then, if you still require it, I'll happily provide it, but who knows? Your brother was able to butcher Lilith. Perhaps he's the only weapon you'll need."

Dean bellowed savagely.

Casting one final look at Sam, who languished on the ground, Crowley zapped himself away. Of course, the brothers would seek his life for this, but hell if it wasn't worth the trouble.

 **SPN**


	2. Anger

_**Author's Note:**_ _So, I wasn't planning to make this story very long, but since you all insisted, here's the next chapter! It was a bit difficult to write (I hate it when Sam and Dean are at odds with each other), but hopefully, we'll get to explore some really fun plot twists. Enjoy!_

 _A special thanks to_ _ **Sammysmissingshoe**_ _for all the wonderful support!_

 **SPN**

It was coming.

Oh, God, it was coming, and nothing could stop it.

The familiar itch—and relief—and exhilaration.

He was floundering, sprawled out on the muddy ground, anxious but helpless to escape the overwhelming stimulation. His heart raced. His muscles tensed. His eyes darted from the trees, to the sky, to the Impala, to Dean. His frantic brother was digging through the trunk as quickly as possible.

It wasn't fair! Sam was clean! Four years sober! How could Crowley do this to him?

He groaned, succumbing to the resent that coursed through his veins. Anger was just so natural, so accessible, so prevalent, so strong. Nothing ever changed.

"Sammy!?" Dean knelt beside him, trembling in agitation as he poured holy water on a torn strip of his flannel shirt. He proceeded to mop up the blood from Sam's face, desperate to wipe away his temptation—as if it wasn't too late for that.

"Cut it out," Sam protested, sick of Dean trying to help. He wasn't a damn baby! Of course, his indignation only heightened his brother's alarm. With renewed urgency, Dean forced himself on top of Sam and continued scrubbing. Sam flushed, utterly humiliated. "What the hell!? Get off!"

"I'm almost done!"

As always, the son of a bitch refused to listen. Dean wasn't happy if he wasn't in control. Did he have any idea what it felt like? Being manipulated?

That was the story of Sam's life, since he was six months old. Contaminated by Azazel. Belittled by his father. Stalked by demons. Possessed by Meg. Betrayed by Ruby. Chosen by Lucifer.

Just when he thought he could redeem himself, Dean had to go and interrupt the third trial; he had to go and conspire with Gadreel.

Did he care that Sam was a breath away from absolution? That Sam was disoriented (and terrified) whenever he lost chunks of time to a frigging angel? That Sam was plagued with nightmares of Kevin's death? That Sam was hurting?

Did he care at all?

No.

Frustrated, Sam dislodged the self-righteous dick and clambered to his feet. He grimaced at the tantalizing taste of power.

So intoxicating.

His mouth watered as he faced his brother, who was already squaring off against him.

"That eager to kill me?" he demanded, which made Dean falter.

"Kill you?"

"It's fitting, don't you think? You bear the Mark of Cain. You said Cain killed his brother to save his soul from corruption. Now look at me. I'm as corrupt as they come."

Dean set his jaw, struggling to hide his apprehension. "Haven't we been over this? I'm not killing you. But I am taking you straight to the bunker, so you might as well get in the car."

Sam scoffed, basking in his brother's fear. "No." He almost smiled. It felt so good—so damn satisfying—to finally have his strength back. "I don't need you bossing me around, and I don't need your protection. I'm fine!"

"You're not fine," Dean impatiently countered. "You're spiraling."

"You're one to talk." Sam gestured at the hidden fortress. "I saw you in there. I saw how the First Blade mesmerized you. I recognized the look on your face. The lust for power. God, Dean. After everything I went through with Ruby and the demon blood, where do you get off pulling the exact same crap with Crowley and the Mark of Cain?"

"I'm trying to kill Abaddon!"

"I was trying to kill Lilith!"

They fumed at each other, but Sam was right, and Dean couldn't deny it.

"Look, you're pissed, and I get it," he acknowledged. "I screwed up. But bitching about it won't change a thing, and right now, you're the one running off the rails, not me, so get in the damn car!"

"No way," Sam flat-out refused. "I haven't felt this normal—this healthy—in over a year, and I'm not going to let you make me sick."

"It won't be that bad. You only had a few drops."

Which was more than enough to whet Sam's appetite. He wanted more. Needed more. Oh, God, he was so thirsty. Ravenous. It ached inside him. He had to find Ruby!

Ruby?

No, she was dead. Sam flinched at the realization. After five years, she still had her coils wrapped tightly around him. He remained as susceptible as ever. But Ruby was evil, and no matter how furious Sam was, he couldn't justify turning back to her. He had to fight.

If only he passed the trials. They would have purified him.

If only his brother wasn't such a selfish bastard.

"I hate you!" he snarled, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists.

Closing his eyes.

He should have known Dean would take advantage of his vulnerability. The son of a bitch launched himself at Sam, slamming his back against the Impala, where he proceeded to strike him in the face. Over and over and over again. Each blow was an agonizing reminder that Sam was weak while Dean was in his prime.

"I'm sorry, kiddo," he had the nerve to say. "But you're not giving me much choice."

Abruptly, Sam retaliated. He could no longer think straight; he was just too angry. Grappling with Dean's arms, he treated his brother to an aggressive headbutt—which sent him reeling. He followed through with an overhand punch that dropped Dean to the ground.

What a rush!

When was the last time he had the strength to stand up for himself? He wasn't just some pawn for monsters and demons—or even his brother—to play with. He was a hunter! More than that, he was free, and he was thirsty. He had to get out of here. He had to find… someone.

"Sammy…" Dean was gradually recovering. He pushed himself up to his knees. "Come on, man, you're better than this! Fight it!"

He could hear the desperation in Dean's voice; he could see traces of panic in his green eyes. There was a time when Sam would have stopped at nothing to spare Dean from any kind of turmoil. But in that moment, he was just too outraged. The urge was irresistible. He bore down on his brother and brutally knocked him out.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	3. Concussion

**SPN**

Dean groaned, waking up to a splitting headache. Great. That's just what he needed. As if this day wasn't bad enough! Screwed by Magnus. Screwed by Crowley. Screwed by Sam. A quick survey of his surroundings assured him his brother was gone—and with the Impala, no less! Dean was stranded, in the middle of nowhere, with nails driving through his skull.

At least, that's what it felt like.

The sun—a glaring white beacon of misery—was reaching the center of the sky. Almost noon. Sam could be anywhere by now, anxiously pursuing his next fix. Hard to blame him. Detoxing from demon blood was a nightmare—the worst torture this side of hell. Unfortunately, Sam would only make it worse by drinking more of the filth. Dean had to find him and stop him. Now.

Moving stiffly, he sat up and dug his phone from his pocket. At least Sam didn't snatch it along with his car keys. Hands shaking, he dialed the first number that came to mind.

Castiel answered immediately. "Dean? What's wrong?"

Under different circumstances, he might have wondered why the angel automatically assumed something was wrong, but this was hardly the time. "Cas… I need your help." If only his friend could fly. It was still something of a mystery how Castiel acquired his stolen grace—he didn't like to talk about it—but apparently, wings weren't included, which really sucked. They could have used them right about now.

"Where are you?" Castiel asked with a nervous edge to his stringent voice. Dean quickly relayed his location, praying the angel wasn't on the opposite end of the country. But, for once, luck was on his side. "Give me three hours. I'll meet you in town."

Three hours was better than twenty. Still, he couldn't afford to wait. Sam was in trouble—a lot of trouble. They might deal with a buttload of crap on a daily basis, but nothing compared to the demon blood. Dean forgave Sam ages ago, but he would never forget the anguish he suffered when his own brother chose a demon over him. Frigging Ruby. And the withdrawal! Even now, after all this time, Dean was still haunted by the sound of Sam screaming. Sobbing. Pleading.

Crowley thought he had it rough sitting in a chair with fever-like symptoms while badgering them with his pitiful temper tantrums. He had no clue! Dean would kill him for this. Slowly and painfully. But first, he had to find Sam!

Grimacing, he climbed to his feet and nearly toppled over as vertigo unbalanced him. His head was throbbing, and he wondered if he had a concussion.

So what if he did? Sam was in danger!

As Dean began trudging along the muddy road into town, he mentally reviewed their heated conversation. When Sam compared him to Cain, did he actually think Dean would kill him? After everything they went through together, were they still wrestling with fratricide? No. Absolutely not. If Dean could defy the heavenly host in the middle of the apocalypse, if he could sacrifice Benny, and leave the gates of hell wide open, and make deals with random angels—all to save Sam's life!—then the Mark of Cain certainly wasn't going to break him. How could Sam question that?

Granted, the disaster with Gadreel was an overwhelming setback. Kevin was dead because of Dean, and naturally, Sam was struggling with survivor's guilt. They were both frustrated, they were both grieving, and they were both pissed… But that didn't make Dean a murderer! He wasn't Cain, and he wasn't going to kill his brother! How could Sam think otherwise?

After a lengthy hike, Dean found the Impala parked on the outskirts of town near a shady convenience store. Her once pristine body was still keyed—a sight that made his blood boil—and her doors were carelessly unlocked. What the hell? Anyone could have taken her, especially in these parts, and Dean shuddered to think what might have happened to her. Where was Sam?

Missing, obviously. He had a real knack for running away, and as always, Dean was left with a debilitating pit in his stomach. If he waited for Cas, Sam would have a three-hour head start. If he went after the kid, his headache (and a possible concussion) would impact his driving. The last thing he needed was an accident. But what choice did he have? His little brother was jonesing for demon blood!

Damn it, Crowley. This was not how he planned to spend the day.

Climbing into the driver's seat, Dean found his keys in the glove compartment and angrily fired up the car. Where would Sam go for a quick fix? A crossroads? Perhaps, but there was no guarantee a demon would show, especially this soon after exorcising "Nicole." More than likely, Sam would find somewhere safe and secluded to perform one of the many summoning spells they picked up over the years. Locating him would be a hassle.

But if anyone could do it, Dean could.

 **SPN**

Despite arranging to meet Castiel in town, Dean was a no-show, forcing the angel to spend another hour driving around aimlessly searching for him. He tried calling, but Dean didn't answer, which set Castiel on edge. Something was drastically wrong, and instinct warned him that time was of the essence. As usual.

When he finally glimpsed the Impala parked in the emergency lane of a minor highway, Castiel was so agitated, he hardly noticed the Enochian symbols scratched across the car. His attention was riveted by Dean, who sat slumped over his steering wheel with his head buried in his arms.

Swerving, Castiel parked the Lincoln Continental in front of the Impala. A chill ran down his spine. The last time he saw the eldest Winchester, they were standing on a dock in the middle of the night, reeling from Gadreel's betrayal. Sam was heartbroken, and Dean was a wreck. Now, Sam was absent, and Dean was…

Dean was exuding a strange, malevolent energy—an evil energy—that Castiel recognized, but couldn't place.

Trembling, he ventured from his car and made his way, slowly, toward his friend. When he reached the Impala, he apprehensively opened the driver-side door. Dean recoiled, glancing up in surprise. He looked sick. His pupils were two different sizes. A concussion.

"Cas…?"

One problem at a time. The angel placed two fingers on Dean's forehead and promptly healed him. Dean gasped, stiffening at the unexpected flood of relief. Then, as he recovered, Castiel snatched his right arm and yanked back the sleeves. He scowled at the unholy mark just beneath the elbow.

The Mark of Cain.

"What have you done?" he asked, glaring at the boy. If they weren't like family, Castiel would renounce him for this.

Dean looked down, scared and ashamed—as he should be. "Cas… we have a bigger problem. Sam's gone… And he's drinking demon blood."

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	4. Thirst

_**Author's Note:**_ _Thank you all so much for your kind reviews. They're all I get for my writing, and I can't express my appreciation! I hope you enjoy this chapter. I'm still building up to the exciting stuff, but I don't want to rush it. Let me know what you think! :-)_

 **SPN**

Since moving into the bunker, Sam and Dean hoped to put their itinerant lifestyle behind them, but just in case, they always traveled with emergency go bags. Nothing was ever permanent, and sooner or later, some new crisis was bound to uproot them. They had to be ready. Therefore, when Sam ditched the Impala, he was able to carry a durable backpack filled with essential supplies, compact weapons, and a change of clothes—plus some extra loot from the trunk.

He was actually running. Like a fugitive.

He tried stopping himself. He loved the bunker—it was the closest thing to home he would ever have. More than that, it was an opportunity to find himself—to become the person he was really meant to be—a Man of Letters! Hunting was all well and good, but he never chose that life. He never wanted it. He never belonged. The bunker offered him the chance to flourish as he never had before; it meant the world to him. So how could he leave?

But he had to leave. He couldn't help it—he was so thirsty! And he had to escape his brother. If Dean found him, he would drag him back to the dungeon, chain him up, and force him through withdrawal. The very thought made him nauseous. No. No way. He would rather die quickly. He couldn't… Dean didn't understand—would never understand!

" _It won't be that bad. You only had a few drops."_

Yeah, right.

Stealing a Toyota Camry, Sam took off in a random direction. He had to put as much distance between himself and his brother as possible. He had to get away. He had to drink. He was so thirsty…

Dean would find him. Dean always found him. The last time this happened, back with Ruby, Sam did everything he could to shake the stubborn bastard, and Dean still found him. He was like a bad penny. Right now, Sam's best strategy was to cover his tracks and keep moving. Consequently, he made his way to Wichita (the largest city in Kansas) and left the car in a public parking lot. He proceeded on foot, fully intending to buy a bus ticket out of there.

But first, he had to drink.

He had to.

It was all he could think about.

Of course, tracking a demon was no small feat. He didn't have the patience to search for omens (crop failures, temperature fluctuations, electrical storms), and would much rather summon one. But where? It was the middle of the afternoon! True, he could always afford a cheap motel room, but since he wasn't planning to spend the night, it felt like a waste of money.

Oh, screw it. He wasn't above breaking and entering.

Perhaps recklessly, he veered across the street towards an ungated apartment complex with multiple two-story buildings. The amenities were lacking—the pool was disgusting—but the tenants compensated with friendly welcome mats, wreaths on their doors, and plants on their balconies. It didn't take a genius to figure out which units were occupied and which were vacant. Selecting a target, Sam scanned his surroundings, and when the coast was clear, he made his approach, picked the lock, and slipped inside.

The apartment was dark and cold, with only an island separating the kitchen from the unfurnished living room. Sam dropped his backpack on the counter and pulled out chalk, five short candles, matches, a bowl, and three small apothecary bottles. No time to waste. He was so thirsty!

As quickly as possible, he sketched the Sigil of Baphomet—a goat's head in the middle of an inverted pentagram—directly on the island's surface. He placed the five candles on each point of the pentagram, with the bowl in the center.

He shouldn't be doing this. He had no idea which demon would turn up, or how powerful it would be. It might kill him.

Just to be safe, Sam slid Ruby's knife from its sheath.

He lit the candles, opened the bottles, and dumped the herbal ingredients into the bowl.

"Attenrobendum eos, ad ligandum eos, potiter eos, coram me."

He caught his breath, waiting in silent anticipation. No going back. He moved around the island into the living room, where he had more space to maneuver. This was sure to be violent and ugly. He'd have to suck the blood from his victim like a freaking vampire! Of course, the demon deserved it. The demon deserved worse! But what about the human host?

What about Cindy McKellan, the nurse he bled dry—all for the sake of power? He thought he was gearing up to save the world, but in reality, he nearly destroyed it. He broke the final seal. He opened the Cage. He was a monster. He would never atone for killing Cindy, but at the very least, he could respect her memory by fighting his thirst. Right? If he just called Dean…

"Hello, Sam."

He whipped around.

There, in the corner, stood a tall white man dressed in a charcoal suit with a red tie. Obviously middle-aged, he had a clean face, salt-and-pepper hair, perfect teeth, and a cavalier attitude. No trace of fear.

Sam shied back, holding up the knife, sweating nervously.

The demon clucked his tongue. "What's the matter, son? No big brother? No devil's trap? You've seen better days."

Sam hesitated. If he was careful, if he paced himself, he only had to drink enough to quench his thirst. Then, he could exorcise the demon, treat the man's injuries, and let him go. No harm done. Right?

The demon stepped towards him.

Sam shuffled back.

The demon smirked. "Oh, come now. Don't be coy. You called me, remember? So how can I be of service?"

By now, Sam was shaking. He couldn't go through with this! Nothing good ever came from it! He had to stop! Where was Dean?

Oh, God…

 _Dean! Help me!_

Losing patience, the demon rolled his eyes and flicked his wrist, fully intending to propel Sam across the room. But it didn't work. Sam held his ground.

At first, the demon looked confused. "What…?"

Then it clicked.

"Well, well, well…" He laughed, crossing his arms. "Maybe there's hope for you yet."

"Don't get too excited," Sam growled. "I'm going to kill every last one of you."

"Sure. If that's what you need to believe."

Still extending the knife, Sam focused on all that power, all that anger, bubbling wildly beneath the surface. If he could just channel it from his core and direct it out through his arm, he could overwhelm the demon.

But the power would not be bridled. The more he tried to harness it, the more it eluded him, exhausting his energy. All too soon, a crushing pressure was wrapped around his skull. He could smell the blood oozing from his nose. His knees nearly buckled.

The demon was laughing again. "Someone's a bit rusty! What do you say, son? Shall I take you in for a tune-up?"

Gasping for breath, Sam folded, dropping his arm to his side. He couldn't… He was still too weak… Sweating… Shaking… Panting…

The demon licked his lips. "Oh, Sammy. I can't wait to see the look on her majesty's face when she sees you like this."

Her majesty?

Abaddon.

Sam braced himself, watching the demon warily. He was obviously no match for a Knight of Hell—and God willing, he never would be.

In the back of his mind, he could almost hear Chuck's voice.

" _You went, like, full-on Vader. Your body temperature was one-fifty. Your heart rate was two hundred. Your eyes were black."_

And that was just to kill Lilith. What would it take to kill Abaddon?

"Come on, son," the demon coaxed with fatherly concern. "Why don't you put the knife down? You're in no condition to fight." He took a small step forward, holding out his hands, just waiting for Sam to drop his guard. "We can help you. We want to help you." He took another step forward, and Sam let him come. Soon, they were face to face, and the demon reached out to gently pluck the blade from his grasp. "Thatta boy…"

Sam promptly kneed him in the groin.

The demon gasped, doubling over while Sam yanked back his knife. He plunged it in the demon's shoulder—it wouldn't kill him, but he still screamed, flashing with golden energy. Then, before he could recover, Sam removed the knife, knocked him to the floor, pinned him down, and pressed his mouth against the injury.

The demon cursed.

Sam drank.

As the blood flowed down his throat, power coursed through his veins.

He was alive again!

He was free.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	5. Jezebel

_**Author's Note:**_ _Sorry these chapters are so short. I just like updating quickly, and shorter chapters make that easier. Lol!_

 **SPN**

As much as it pained Dean to admit, Sam had mastered the art of running away. His phone was dead; he wasn't using any of their credit cards or normal aliases; and the police had yet to locate the stolen car—an old Toyota Camry—that he probably 'borrowed.' The kid was gone, without a trace, and Dean was a miserable wreck. He could barely function.

At Castiel's recommendation, he began the lonely drive back to the bunker. He highly doubted Sam would return home, but then again, if Sam thought Dean was out looking for him, he might sneak in to stock up on supplies. It was a long shot, but what else could Dean do? His brother was a needle in a haystack, and he was spinning his wheels trying to hunt for him without a lead. He could really use some additional help, but aside from Cas, who did he trust with something so precarious? Sam was craving demon blood! If the wrong people found out, it could be disastrous.

But Dad was dead. Bobby and Kevin were dead. Charlie was in a different dimension. Garth was retired.

Maybe Sheriff Mills? She was a friendly face with plenty of resources and—more importantly—an open mind. Besides, he didn't have to tell her the whole story, right? Just the main points. Sam was missing, and if they didn't find him soon, there'd be hell to pay!

Keeping his eyes on the road—mostly—Dean fished his phone from his pocket and opened his contact list. He scrolled from Cas' name down to… Crowley's—the son of a bitch responsible for this nightmare. Against his better judgment, Dean made the call, silently daring Crowley not to answer. Of all the demons they knew, the self-proclaimed King of Hell was easily the most irritating, and yet Dean put up with him because he consistently proved useful. He was an evil dick, but against their common enemies, they worked surprisingly well together. Honestly, it wasn't his betrayal that surprised Dean—it was the short-sighted stupidity of his betrayal.

After four rings, the call went through, and Dean was greeted by a familiar, pompous voice. "Squirrel! To what do I owe this pleasure?"

His hand tightened on the steering wheel. His foot grew heavy on the accelerator. "I'm not going to bore you with idle threats," he said darkly. "But I want to make sure you understand what you put in motion. Sam's gone AWOL, and when he gets blood-thirsty, he gets mean. Remember when he lost his soul? That was nothing. He's going to be angry, obsessed, and violent. And the more he drinks, the worse it'll get."

Crowley yawned. "I trust your little monologue has a point?"

"Yeah," Dean snapped. "You screwed yourself! Where do you think Sam will direct his hostility? Yellow Eyes is dead. Meg is dead. Ruby's dead. Lilith's dead. Of all the demons left in the world, you're the one he hates the most—even more than Abaddon. By now, he's got a one-track mind, and that's to kill you."

"I'm flattered."

"You're an idiot! Sam killed Lilith. He killed Alastair! You're no match for him, and when your minions find out, they're gonna panic. I'm willing to bet every last one of them will hightail it straight to Abaddon, and you can kiss what's left of your kingdom goodbye."

"Why, Dean," Crowley teased. "I had no idea you cared! But don't count me out just yet. As it happens, I have the mojo to shelter my faithful subjects from the giant's summoning spells, so as long as they remain discreet, they have nothing to fear. Your brother won't find them. Instead, his wrath will fall on our opposition. He will decimate their ranks and give us the advantage."

"Yeah, well, count me out," Dean snarled. "As long as Sam's safe and clean, I'll do your dirty work, but till then, find someone else to kill Abaddon. It won't be me."

"Oh, please." Crowley wasn't fazed. "We both know you won't hold a personal grudge over the fate of the world. And trust me, unchecked, that bitch will destroy the world."

"You know what, Crowley?" Dean's tone was dead serious. "I don't care anymore. Maybe it's the Mark on my arm, but for once in my life, the fate of the world is the least of my worries. So help me find my brother, or I swear to God, I'll be rooting for the Queen." That said, he terminated the call and focused back on the road.

 **SPN**

Very few things could distract Jezebel from painting her nails. She was an ancient, extravagant demon who spent thousands—thousands!—of years burning in hell, so when she finally escaped through the Wyoming Devil's Gate, she felt entitled to certain luxuries. Her current meatsuit was a fifteen-year-old brunette from Portland with impressive computer skills, but little-to-no fashion sense, and it was a thrill sprucing her up while her parents watched in nervous bewilderment.

But when it came to Crowley, the ridiculous buffoon who would be king, Jezebel was remarkably hawkish. How could the armies of hell bow down to a traitor? It was no secret Crowley conspired with the Winchesters to thwart their master's plans—he actually had the audacity to celebrate when Sam dragged Lucifer back into the Cage! Usurping bastard. What gave him the right to rule? And how could their fellow demons allow it? Where was their dignity?

Damn Dean for killing Azazel. This never would have happened under his supervision.

Needless to say, Abaddon was an answered prayer. She was everything a leader should be, and Jezebel had faith she would restore hell to its former glory. Eager to contribute, she found herself collaborating with a seductive whore named Lola who somehow managed to weasel her way into Crowley's bed. Together, they planted a powerful demonically-enhanced bug on the junkie's cell phone, and despite Lola's untimely demise, Jezebel was still able to monitor his private conversations.

Now, sitting on her meatsuit's bed, painting her toenails pink, she listened to the recording on her laptop with a thoughtful frown. Apparently, Sam was back on demon blood. A lesser fiend would have been terrified—after all, Sam was dangerous—but not Jezebel. This could be an opportunity! Sam was still their master's vessel—he was still their greatest hope. Perhaps destiny was seeking another way to play itself out, in which case, Jezebel had to report this to Abaddon.

Immediately.

 **SPN**

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	6. Abaddon

**SPN**

The next day, Sam felt more like himself—strong, steady, and confident. He had taken a bus from Wichita to Tulsa, where he spent the night, showered three times, and washed his clothes. He would need to get some extra outfits—two sets were hardly adequate. Now, more than ever, he had to stay fresh and clean. It was imperative.

As he walked from the laundry mat to a nearby café, with his backpack slung over his shoulder, he considered his next move. If he was going to keep hunting, he would require more weapons, better supplies, and a car of his own—which meant he required more cash. He would have to hustle a lot of pool. Easy enough. He didn't mind swindling some cocky, drunken thugs out of their money. Not anymore. He was on a mission—if he couldn't atone for his past mistakes by closing the Gates of Hell, he could at least make up for it by killing as many demons as possible. Starting with Crowley. And if he had to break a few rules in the process, well, the end justified the means.

God, he was starting to sound like Dean.

Dean…

Stepping into the café, Sam took stock of his surroundings while wrestling with a pang of remorse. His brother must be worried sick about him! Hypocritical or not, Dean meant well, and no matter how aggravating he was, Sam wished they didn't always have to fight.

About fifteen other people were interspersed throughout the room, and none of them seemed threatening. They were just… normal… going about their day, sheltered from the secret evils of the world. The cashier behind the counter was a friendly woman in a black ball cap who took Sam's order with a gracious smile. He could barely meet her gaze. He didn't belong here—he felt uncomfortably out of place. Different. Forsaken. Alone. He found himself staring at the pastry selection—specifically the pies.

Once he paid for his coffee and a grilled chicken wrap, Sam trudged over to a small table in the far corner, where he slouched down and fiddled with his new burner phone. He missed his brother. If they could just talk, if they could just listen to each other… Then what? Sam knew from experience that Dean would only yell, criticize, and ridicule. They'd just be wasting their time.

Still…

He dialed his brother's number and apprehensively held the phone to his ear.

Dean answered on the second ring. "Hello?"

"Dean…"

"Sam!? Where are you!? Are you okay!?" His voice was strained with panic.

Sam hesitated. "Yeah… yeah, I'm fine. Better than I've been in a long time." He listened for hints of contempt; he heard nothing but concern.

"Sammy, I know it's been hard. We've had a rough patch, and it's my fault, and I'm sorry. I… I know you've got no reason to trust me, but please, let me help you!"

Sam shifted restlessly; he noticed his leg was shaking. A part of him longed for his brother's help, but it would only mean withdrawal—a thought that terrified him. "Dean, listen… I'm sorry about yesterday. I was out of line."

"No, Crowley was out of line! You don't have to apologize. You didn't do anything wrong. Just… just tell me where you are. I don't care if I have to board a plane! I'll be there!"

"I know you will," Sam assured him. "But it's not that simple."

"Yes, it is!"

"No," Sam argued. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "How do you think I made it through that year with hallucinations of Lucifer? Cause not even that compared to…" He didn't have to finish the sentence. Dean got the message, loud and clear.

"Sammy, I've been to hell. I've been there. Believe it or not, I know what you're going through. But you're strong. You've survived it before; you'll survive it again. And I'll be with you the whole time. So will Cas."

Sam shook his head. "I'm sorry, Dean. But I can't."

There was nothing more to say.

He ended the call.

 **SPN**

Handcrafting an army of demons completely from scratch was no small task. Abaddon had to build factories in strategic locations; she had to teach her followers how to extract souls from humans; she had to expedite the conversion process; she had to kill anyone who stood in her way. It was a lot to coordinate, and it kept her busy, but she enjoyed the labor.

Normally, souls required an extended stay downstairs, suffering years—even centuries—of unspeakable torment before the hellfire stripped them of their humanity. Abaddon didn't have the patience for that. She was too eager to conquer Crowley. A campaign? He had the nerve to call this conflict a campaign? As if hell was some kind of democracy? No. That's not how the inferno worked, and if she couldn't convince the other demons to accept that, she would simply create her own.

Presently, she occupied the warden's office of an abandoned penitentiary where she made her lair. Despite decades of decay, the facility was still a sufficient stronghold, and she couldn't wait to make use of the holding cells. Already her minions were fixing up the joint, preparing it for humans, demons, and angels alike. But the warden's office required no further upgrades. It was a lovely room with hard-wood floors, classic wainscoting, large windows, and crown molding. Once Abaddon brought in her very own executive desk with a tufted leather chair, she felt perfectly at home.

Settling down, she calmly considered the four glass jars awaiting her inspection. They each contained glistening, silvery-blue souls—the very best of the best. While Abaddon couldn't personally attend to every conversion (she was far too busy), she still enjoyed the occasional 'session.' Human souls were just so soft, sweet, and powerful. Breaking them was a true delight.

However, at that moment, someone decided to interrupt.

The door to her office opened, and a teenager—a miserable dark-haired bitch in a pink miniskirt—brazenly stepped inside. "My Queen…" She had a rich, honeyed voice. "I beg your pardon, but I have news of Crowley and the Winchesters that requires your immediate attention."

Abaddon sighed. Her darker impulses urged her to eviscerate the girl, but that would be careless. If the First Blade really was back in play, she'd be a fool to overlook the slightest report. Still, was it too much to ask for thirty minutes to torture someone? "I left Aldo with strict instructions that I was not to be disturbed."

"Yes, my liege," the girl acknowledged, bowing her head. "And he tried intercepting me, but I… insisted."

"Oh really?" Unamused, Abaddon climbed to her feet, towering over the girl by nine inches. "And who do you think you are to decide what requires my immediate attention?"

The girl blanched. "I… Forgive me. I am your faithful servant, and I guarantee you'll want to hear what I have to say."

"Very well." Abaddon crossed her arms. "I'm all ears. But keep in mind, if your next sentence fails to impress me, I will mutilate you. Slowly."

The girl winced.

But then she said, "Sam Winchester is our Father in Hell's one true vessel… and he is drinking demon blood."

 **SPN**

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	7. Disclosure

_**Author's Note:**_ _Okay, so this one's really short. I apologize, but I couldn't wait to post Abaddon's reaction, and I hope you love it. Hugs!_

 **SPN**

Abaddon could not believe what she was hearing. Surely it had to be a joke. But in this day and age, when Crowley—a salesman!—could be king, anything was possible. Sam Winchester? The chosen one? It was a lot to process. Sam wasn't quite who she pictured as her Father's sacred vessel. Oh, he was strong—there was no question about that—and he was clever. She still remembered how he doused her with holy oil and lit her body on fire. It took a special creature to frustrate a Knight of Hell, and she was eager to 'commend' him for it.

But her Father's vessel? No, Sam didn't have the right personality. Did he?

The first time Abaddon got a close look at Sam—by himself, without Henry or his brother—the boy was interviewing Larry Ganem about the Men of Letters. He was so polite and gentle and empathetic. His eyes were soft and dewy. He could coax people into sharing their secrets as easily as Abaddon could torture them into it. When Abaddon ran her fist through Henry's intestines, Sam was so upset, and so compassionate, he actually held the dying man in his arms. Who does that? Nice people. Sam was a genuinely nice person.

Honestly, Abaddon preferred his brother. Dean, who stabbed her in the back, who chopped off her head, who talked dirty, and walked around like he owned the joint. Dean was strong, fierce, and authoritative. A real treat. As much as Abaddon favored Josie, she would happily trade the bitch in for the eldest Winchester.

Wouldn't that be fitting? The rightful King of Hell—Lucifer himself—inhabiting Sam's body with his faithful Knight inhabiting Dean's? Abaddon licked her lips. If Sam was drinking demon blood, did that mean the apocalypse was nigh? But then, where was Lilith? For their Father to rise, the seals locking the cage must be broken, and Lilith was the final seal—every Knight knew that. Why would the first demon put up with Crowley?

Making her way around the desk, Abaddon casually approached her young informant. "What's your name, pet?"

The girl smiled and bowed her head. "Jezebel, my liege."

"Hmm…" Abaddon kept walking, circling around her. "I like you, Jezebel. I trust you're telling me the truth?"

"Of course!"

"I certainly hope so. How did you come by this intelligence?"

"A demon named Lola tapped Crowley's phone, allowing me to record his private conversations. I don't have the skills necessary to challenge the scumbag myself, but I can spy on him. From the sound of it, Dean blames him for knocking Sam off the wagon."

Abaddon frowned, pausing in front of the girl. "What do you mean, off the wagon?"

Jezebel flushed, averting her eyes while wringing her hands. "Oh… I just… I mean… Well, Sam hasn't…"

"Spit it out," Abaddon patiently advised, and Jezebel took a deep breath.

"Sam's addiction began around six years ago, after Lilith killed his brother."

"His brother?"

"Dean."

Abaddon shook her head; this story was getting more and more interesting. "But Dean's alive."

"Yes, my liege. The angels brought him back. According to prophecy, 'the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in hell. As he breaks, so shall it break.'"

Abaddon's breath caught in her throat.

"Thanks to Alastair's persuasion, Dean broke the first seal," Jezebel continued. "And the angels realized 'the righteous man who begins it is the only one who can finish it.' They brought him back to stop the apocalypse. He failed."

"What do you mean, he failed?" Abaddon barked, growing more and more agitated. If the first seal was broken… If Lilith was nowhere to be found… How could Crowley claim the throne? Where was their beloved Father!?

"Sam was high on demon blood," Jezebel explained. "He was too strong, and Dean couldn't stop him. He killed Lilith. He broke the final seal."

"That's impossible!" Abaddon's temper got the best of her, and the windows all shattered as she roared. Jezebel flinched. "If the seals are broken, our Father walks the earth! WHERE IS HE!?"

"The Winchesters locked him back in the cage," Jezebel said with a trembling voice. "No one knows how, and Sam's been sober ever since. The humans won. That's how Crowley…"

Abaddon shrieked, and Jezebel shrank back, clamping her hands over her ears.

What kind of future did she wake up in!? Not only was a crossroads demon the self-proclaimed king, but the apocalypse was over? And their Father LOST!? It wasn't possible! It was a perverted nightmare! She couldn't believe it! This had to be a joke!

Oh, there would be hell to pay. Make no mistake about that.

 **SPN**

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	8. Prosperity's

**SPN**

Hoping to earn some extra cash, Sam ventured into Prosperity's Bar and Grill, which was something of a dive. The brick walls were decorated with beer signs, local memorabilia, and neon accent lighting. The faux leather booths were old and shabby. A hint of smoke lingered in the air. It wasn't the kind of place Sam would normally frequent—Dean, maybe—but given the circumstances, he couldn't afford to be selective.

Presently, in the late hours of the evening, most of the bar's patrons were single men and women looking for a good time. Some were drinking, some were flirting, and some were placing bets around the pool table. Off to the side, a small section had been cleared away for a petite blonde with a guitar, singing a cover of _Pompeii_. She had a pleasant voice, and multiple douchebags were blatantly checking her out. Sam hoped she didn't come by herself, but really, it was none of his business.

He quietly took a seat near the pool table, and since no one seemed to notice him, he fished a silver flask out of his pocket. Before exorcising the demon back in that apartment, he made sure to stock up on blood, just to tide him over until his next hunt. Removing the lid, he took a small sip and savored the metallic taste—it was so good.

Satisfied, he put it back and glanced over at the gamblers. While most of them were average civilians ranging from teenagers with fake IDs to middle-class suburbanites to harmless bikers, three of them were different—athletic, with exceptional posture, buzzed hair, and obvious fortitude. They were all dressed in street clothes, making it hard to say where they served, but they were definitely serving somewhere, and they wouldn't appreciate a hustler like Sam.

As for the actual players, one was a lanky guy in a sweater vest, and the other was a Native American wearing a simple white T-shirt. Sam watched them both with casual interest, making an effort to blend in with the other spectators. How should he approach this? He didn't have his brother for back-up, and a confrontation with those three servicemen might not be his best idea.

However, before he could think of a strategy, a waitress appeared next to him with a glass of whiskey. "Here you go," she said, dropping it on the table. "Compliments of the Brit at the bar." She nodded towards a familiar figure perched on a stool with a smug smile on his ugly face. Crowley.

Sam stiffened as the waitress moved on to her next table. What the hell was Crowley doing here? What could he possibly want this time? God, if only they weren't in such a public environment! Sam was itching to kill the bastard, but that wouldn't be wise with so many witnesses. Fuming, he scanned the room for signs of other demons, but as far as he could tell, they were alone.

"Hello, Moose." Crowley was suddenly in the chair across from him. Sam jumped, glaring angrily while he pointed at the drink. "A peace offering. I only want to talk. No tricks; no threats; just open dialogue."

Sam scoffed. "How'd you find me?"

Crowley answered with a noncommittal shrug. "Well, I can't give away all my secrets, now can I? Let's just say I didn't become the King of Hell for my charming personality. Anyway, that's neither here nor there. The important thing is your brother's selfish behavior. He's the best chance—the only chance—we have at killing Abaddon, and he knows it, and he's holding it over my head, refusing to cooperate like a stubborn arse. Care to guess why?"

Sam leaned forward. "Maybe cause you pissed him off."

Crowley shook his head dismissively. "Please. I piss him off all the time, but that never seems to affect his compliance. Face it, Moose. Your brother's all bark and no bite." Sam clenched his fists. "Unfortunately, it would appear the Mark of Cain has made him a tad… unruly."

"And who do you have to thank for that?" Sam demanded.

Crowley sighed, leaning back in his seat. "Touché. But the question remains, how do we restore his motivation?"

"We?" Sam growled. "There is no 'we,' Crowley. Do you have any idea what Dean's going to put me through when he finds me, all because of you?"

Crowley had the decency to avert his eyes. "You know, there's another option. As a crossroads demon, if we arrange a legitimate deal, I can make you clean."

Sam jumped to his feet, furious. "Are you out of your damn mind!?" The three servicemen all looked up from the pool table, instantly on guard, but Sam barely noticed. His attention was fixed on his enemy. "I would rather die than strike a deal with you."

As usual, Crowley wasn't fazed. "I'm not asking for your soul, Sam. I just want immunity from you and Dean. That's not so bad, is it? Then, we can sweep all this under the rug."

Sam shook his head. "Go to hell." Grabbing his backpack, he stormed away from the table.

"Sam!" Crowley called after him.

He glanced back around. "It's never going to happen, so you can just forget it. I'm out of here. You can follow me if you want to, but I wouldn't recommend it." Even if Crowley was telling the truth, Sam wasn't sure he could bring himself to give up his powers. They felt so… invigorating. He never realized how much he missed the feeling, especially since the trials nearly crippled him. Besides, he was too determined to kill Crowley. He would never agree to spare his life.

Turning back towards the entrance, Sam suddenly found himself cut off by a gorgeous redhead in a black leather jacket. She peered up at him with a sultry smile.

Abaddon.

"Found you," she said, punching him in the face.

Sam flew backwards, careening into a table before toppling to the floor.

Several people shrieked. The music stopped as the girl with the guitar watched in bewilderment. The three servicemen all hastened to intervene, but Abaddon unfurled an arm, tossing them aside with her telekinesis. Immediately, panic ensued as everyone in the bar freaked out. They frantically scrambled for the exits, only to find the doors sealed shut. Abaddon laughed.

Sam glared up at her, rubbing his jaw in dismay. He wasn't strong enough to hurt her—not yet—and even if he ran her through with Ruby's knife, it would barely slow her down. He was screwed.

Catching his gaze, Abaddon winked. "Stay right there, darling. I'll be with you in a jiffy. But first, I'm dying to blow off a little steam."

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	9. Rampage

_**Author's Note:**_ _These next few chapters are dedicated to_ _ **Sammysmissingshoe.**_

 **SPN**

From his place on the floor, Sam watched helplessly as Abaddon directed her attention towards the pool table, where the lanky player in the sweater vest was cowering in fear. He held up his cue stick as if it could shield him, obviously incapable of fighting, which kindled a look of false pity on the bitch's face.

"Oh, you poor thing," she crooned. "Don't worry; I'll be gentle." She promptly charged at him, batting the stick away and slashing his throat with her fingernails. The screaming crescendoed as the man's body hit the ground. It was chaos in the bar with people literally running over each other trying to escape—but there was no way out. Abaddon laughed, savoring the bedlam as she scouted for another victim. She was going to slaughter everyone!

Frantic, Sam pulled his flask from his pocket. He had to do something! But his hands were shaking, and removing the lid proved surprisingly difficult. Meanwhile, Abaddon murdered another man, followed by a young woman. The smell of blood filled the room. Sam began sweating.

Someone took hold of his elbow, attempting to haul him to his feet. Caught off guard, Sam reflexively twisted to hook his assailant in the head. Crowley stumbled backwards, cursing under his breath. When he regained his balance, he scowled impatiently at Sam, who was back on his knees. "You twit! We need to get out of here, now!"

Sam ignored him, finally managing to open the flask. He took a large gulp, desperately trying to tune out all the screaming and sobbing and pleading as Abaddon worked her way through the crowd. He couldn't just leave them here to die, and like Dean always said, it was better to go down swinging.

Well, here goes nothing.

Gritting his teeth, Sam clambered to his feet, but a nervous Crowley sidled between him and his target. "Are you daft!?" he demanded. "You can't fight her! It's suicide!"

By some twist of fate, Abaddon had yet to notice the crossroads demon—she was too absorbed in her rampage. Crowley could have taken the opportunity to flee, but he no doubt feared how Dean would react. If he abandoned Sam to a Knight of Hell, it would likely trigger a full-scale war with the eldest Winchester—which didn't bother Sam in the slightest.

Heart pounding, he stretched his arm out towards the would-be king and clenched his fist. This time, the power swelling inside him obeyed his command, and Crowley seized up as an unseen pressure tightened around his throat. Sam swept his arm to the side, psychically reeling Crowley out of the way. "If you come near me," he warned the bastard. "I will kill you. So back off, and try to get those doors open!" Maybe they could save some lives after all.

Releasing his enemy, Sam focused on the real threat. Abaddon was advancing on the blonde musician while licking the blood off her fingers. The poor girl was petrified, too scared to move as tears poured down her face. Sam braced himself, extending his arm and channeling everything he had to stop the bitch in her tracks.

It worked!

At least, it caught her attention. She paused, glancing around to look at Sam with a twinkle in her blue eyes. "So it's true," she purred, smiling in admiration. "And to think, all this time, I've been so eager to kill you." As she turned to face him fully, she tossed her hair over her shoulders and experimentally flicked her wrist. Sam managed to hold his ground, but it took considerable effort—his knees buckled, his head throbbed, and he unwittingly drew his hand up to his temple.

Abaddon's smile widened. "I'm impressed. Honestly, Sam, you've been holding out on me. Why am I just now finding out you're the little prince?"

His pounding heart skipped a beat. Little prince? Oh, that did not sound good. He backed away as she began sauntering towards him. Just because they could withstand each other's abilities didn't mean they were evenly matched. Abaddon was far stronger physically, and could kill him as easily as she could kill anyone. Unfortunately, Sam had a feeling that wasn't her intention. Crap.

"Tell me something," she said as she crossed the distance between them. "How'd you do it? How could you possibly trap his majesty down in that wretched cage?"

Lucifer.

Sam suddenly flashed back to the pit. He saw the chains perforating his body. He heard the gleeful laughter. A familiar visage appeared in front of him, both calm and sinister, shrouded by an eerie blue light. Sam struggled to breathe.

Then, the smell of blood, and a warm touch on his face, snapped him back to the present. Abaddon was caressing his cheek, staring into his eyes almost reverently. Sam grabbed her wrist, but couldn't move her hand away. She reciprocated by clutching his other wrist with her other hand and squeezing painfully tight. He gasped, despite himself.

"I asked you a question, little prince," she taunted softly. "It's rude to ignore me. Now, we both know I'll have my answer one way or another, but why make it difficult? How did you trap his majesty in the cage?"

Sam shook his head. "Why? It won't change anything. Lucifer's gone, and he's not coming back. It's over!"

"Is it?" she asked, unconvinced. "Care to wager on that? Because, if I'm not mistaken, the sixty-six seals were all destroyed, and they can't just be repaired. By all rights, the door to the cage should be wide open for the rest of eternity. But it's not. Somehow, you and your brother must have changed the locks, and I want the key."

The rings of the Four Horsemen. She would take them, and she would open the cage, and she would unleash Lucifer to walk the earth!

Sam didn't know what gave him away, but the bitch recognized his tell. She chuckled wickedly. "It's on the tip of your tongue, boy. So let's hear it. Don't be shy."

Sam dropped her wrist to punch her in the face. The momentum whipped her head to the side, but she wasn't really jarred, and she maintained her hold on his other arm. He tried yanking free, but her grip was ironclad.

"Was that really necessary?" she asked, righting herself. "What did you hope to accomplish?"

"Go screw yourself!"

"Temper, temper." She roughly twisted his arm behind his back and drove him to his knees. He grunted, struggling ineffectively—she was too powerful. "You know, you Winchesters are so delicious when you're feisty. I just want to keep you."

The implications sent a chill down his spine.

At that moment, the front doors and the emergency exits all flew open, and the terrified survivors ran for their lives. Abaddon glanced up in surprise, unaware of Crowley's presence and confused by the interference.

Desperate to escape, Sam took the opportunity to shake her off, but she quickly countered by wrapping an arm around his neck, catching him in a choke hold.

"Oh, I don't think so," she whispered in his ear. "You're with me now, and I'm going to take outstanding care of you. After all, our master will probably want you back when I set him free."

The next thing Sam knew, Abaddon was teleporting them both away.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	10. The Throne

_**Author's Note:**_ _Just a quick warning… This probably goes without saying, but Abaddon is not a nice person, and the genre of this story is Horror/Angst for a reason… Enjoy!_

 **SPN**

A heartbeat later, they arrived in a pitch-black chamber that was so dark, Sam wondered if he lost his vision. When Abaddon let go, dumping him on a hard concrete floor, he couldn't even see his hands in front of him. The air was cold and damp, reeking of sulfur, and nearby, he overheard the sound of dripping water. Where the hell were they?

"I wish I could offer you better accommodations," Abaddon teased, circling around him. Sam tensed, following her voice apprehensively. Granted, he was trained to fight with a blindfold, but not against demonic Knights of Hell. He braced himself for an attack, but Abaddon kept her distance. "It's a shame, really. Western architecture leaves a lot to be desired. I wish I could set you up in a nice Gothic throne room, but we'll just have to make due with what we have."

"Throne room?" Sam couldn't hide his bewilderment. What the hell was she talking about?

"Well, you are the Father's vessel," she playfully replied. "You deserve the very best, little prince."

Sam tasted bile in the back of his throat. "Don't call me that!"

She chuckled, still circling him like a vulture. "Well, if you prefer, I could always call you his little bitch." She was suddenly next to him, cuffing the side of his head with enough force to knock him on his back. Lights flashed like fireworks before his eyes, and he almost passed out. Meanwhile, Abaddon straddled his torso and sat down, planting her knees firmly on his arms, facing his legs. "You know," she said. "I could warm you up for him." Her hands fondled his waist.

Sam bucked angrily, straining against her weight, but she was too strong. "You can torture me all you like, but I'm not telling you anything!" He wasn't bluffing. After everything Lucifer put him through, he had an extremely high tolerance for pain.

"Oh, I don't think torturing you for information will be necessary," she assured him, slowly unbuckling his belt. Sam groaned as she tugged it free. "My sources tell me you're addicted to demon blood. What's that like?" She slid the belt under his thighs, wrapped it around, and cinched it tight.

"Don't!" Sam objected, but naturally, she didn't listen. He writhed miserably as she kept talking.

"I have a theory, when you're ready for your next fix, you'll prove much more cooperative." Sam recoiled, fighting the urge to vomit. Torture was one thing. Withdrawal was another.

Keeping his arms in check with her knees, Abaddon slid closer to his feet and fiddled with her own belt. "We can still have fun, though. Can't we? I need to thank you for setting me on fire." She looped it around his ankles, and when she was satisfied with his restraints, she squeezed his knee. "Do you like it gentle, Sam? Or do you like it rough?"

"Go to hell!"

"Rough it is." She climbed off him, but he didn't have time to reach either belt before she kicked him in the chest. Pain radiated through his whole body, and he crumpled, gasping for breath. Then, she seized him by the throat and hauled him off the ground—her grip was like a noose, strangling him, and he panicked, grappling frantically to tear free. She barely seemed to notice, dragging him across the room like a rag doll.

"Don't trip, now," she advised as they came to a staircase, but with his legs hampered, his feet slid awkwardly up each step. At least it wasn't a long climb—six or seven steps total—but then Abaddon was shoving him onto a hard chair, and he remembered how she mentioned a Gothic throne room. His blood ran cold. Oh, God, where was Dean!?

Releasing his neck, Abaddon grabbed his arm and yanked it over his head. Sam coughed, too oxygen deprived to resist, despite the terrifying rattle of a chain. Moments later, a shackle snapped firmly around his wrist. "No…"

"You like that?" she asked, sitting on his lap.

He tried hitting her with his free arm, but she was ready for it, and easily caught his wrist. Her nails dug into his skin, making him grimace.

She chucked. "I know it's dark, and you can't see, but I hope you appreciate where you're sitting. We might not be in a real throne room, but I promise you're on a real throne. I had my people fetch it all the way from Europe. It's quite opulent—worthy of a prince like you." Sam thrashed as she wrenched his arm up and shackled it just like the other. He was stuck.

"There," she said smugly. "Now, when his majesty rises, you'll be ready for him in the seat of honor."

"That's never going to happen," Sam objected, pulling on the chains, testing their strength. Unfortunately, they were quite secure and offered very little slack. "My brother's going to kill you."

"Oh, I can't wait to find your brother," she replied, brushing a hand through his hair. He tensed, leaning as far back as the chair would allow. It wasn't enough. Abaddon leaned in—he could feel her breath on his face. "I can't wait to scratch that tattoo off his chest and take possession of him. With that Mark on his arm, he's more desirable than ever, and I _will_ have him."

Sam shook his head. "You're delusional."

"I'm a visionary," she argued, stroking his cheek with unsettling tenderness. "And when I get my hands on him, I'm going to make him do all kinds of nasty things to you. If I can wait that long." Her lips found his, and she pressed against him eagerly. Sam moaned, turning his head away in disgust, but it was hardly an improvement. She simply licked her tongue over his face and sucked on his ear.

"Stop!" He bucked wildly, desperate to knock her off his lap, but she wouldn't be dislodged. "Abaddon, stop!"

She sighed. "You know," she whispered in mild frustration while snagging a fistful of his hair. "That's really distracting." She forcefully jerked his head back, and he gasped in pain. While his mouth was open, she took the opportunity to stuff in some kind of cloth. It was thick, and it weighed down his tongue, muffling his protests. Before he could spit it out, she sealed it in with a long strip that she tied behind his head.

"There," she said, squeezing his face in her hands. "If you're not going to answer my questions, then why should you speak at all?" She kissed his forehead.

Panicking, Sam renewed his struggles, fighting for all he was worth, and thank God, Abaddon relented.

"Oh, all right!" she exclaimed. "We'll wait for Dean, if that's what you really want." She laughed, petting his hair. "In the meantime, why don't I make you more comfortable?" She adjusted her weight to lean over the side of the chair. Sam couldn't see what she was doing, but when he heard the rattling of more chains, he had a sinking feeling that he wasn't going to like it.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	11. The Report

**SPN**

More often than not, Abaddon preferred to skip the foreplay and jump straight to the torture. Anticipation might have a way of enhancing the overall experience, but she rarely had the patience for it, and she didn't really need it. Torture was gratifying enough on its own. Sam, however, was obviously a special case, and he deserved special attention—particularly if he spent any length of time down in that cage, as the rumors implied. Their Father in Hell could be a hard act to follow, and if Abaddon was going to make an impression on the boy, she had to go the extra mile.

Sliding off his lap, she shoved a chain under his thighs and wrapped it around—over, under, over, under… His legs were already hampered by his belt, but why stop there? She wrapped the chain all the way to his ankles, pulling it as tight as possible and adding the necessary padlocks to keep it secure. Naturally, Sam tried kicking her, but she was ready with iron fetters that would anchor his feet to the floor. When she snapped them on, she relished the sound of his frustrated grunting.

But she wasn't done yet. Standing up, she produced a sharp knife and began slicing his jacket and shirt sleeves. "Careful," she cooed when he tried twisting away from her. "I don't want to accidentally cut you." Much to her amusement, a muffled objection escaped his gag. Oh, she loved it when they tried to talk! He was panting miserably by the time she removed his upper garments—she never understood why humans cared so much about their modesty, especially when they had such fine bodies, but if stripping them caused such distress, who was she to complain?

Standing back, she took a moment to admire her work. (The windowless room didn't supply any light whatsoever, making it impossible for Sam to see, but Abaddon's vision was exceptional, regardless of the dark.) She couldn't help but smile; he was so perfect. She climbed back on his lap, unfazed by his squirming, and slowly ran her hand from his cheek down his neck, to his chest. She playfully caressed his anti-possession tattoo, which looked recent, before continuing on down his abdomen to his waist. She slipped her hands underneath him, groping his ass while searching the back pockets of his jeans to confiscate a jackknife and a set of lock picks. Tossing them to the floor, she progressed to his front pockets and dug out his phone and wallet.

"You don't need these, do you?" she asked, discarding them. He bit down on his gag, furious, but helpless. "No," she teased, petting him affectionately. "From now on, I'll grant you everything you need."

He threw himself forward, as far as the chains would allow, to slam his head on top of hers. The onslaught was forceful enough to knock her backwards, and she hit the ground with a wild laugh. "WHEW!" She sat up, grinning gleefully. "Oh, baby, you do know how to please!" She quickly reached for another length of chain and began threading it under the armrests, over Sam's waist, and behind the back of the throne. She continued wrapping it around like a seatbelt five or six times before padlocking it in place. Sam grunted pitifully as the iron links dug into his skin, which only served him right. "You have no one to blame but yourself, little prince."

Satisfied, she returned to his lap and brushed the hair from his face. He was still struggling, but his new restraints left him sufficiently impotent. He wasn't going anywhere—and neither was Abaddon. "It could still be awhile before your cravings return," she whispered thoughtfully. "But that's okay. I don't mind waiting here with you."

Just to make him uncomfortable, she settled in on top of him, resting her head against his chest while lightly tracing his clavicle with her finger. At first, his muffled protests were angry and frustrated, but then, as five minutes became ten minutes, as ten minutes became twenty, his aggression gradually succumbed to pure, delicious agitation. Abaddon relished the way his body trembled beneath hers, and the smell of his sweat was delightful. She couldn't help but taste it, eagerly licking his skin—much to his disgust.

"Isn't this nice?" she teased, snuggling against him. "I could just stay like this forever."

 **SPN**

"Dean… Dean… You need to wake up."

Castiel's distant, nebulous voice was growing more and more distinct, jolting Dean back to consciousness. He found himself lying over the sheets of his bed in the bunker, fully clothed—thank God—with a grim-faced angel staring at him. What the hell? When did he fall asleep?

Oh, that's right. He and Castiel had been 'calmly discussing' their options in the library when the son of a bitch raised two fingers to his head and knocked him out. Cheap shot. Dean groaned. "Cas? What time is it?"

"Two-twelve in the morning," he replied, as precise as ever. "Come with me. I have a lead, and you're not going to like it."

Damn. Swinging his feet to the floor, Dean clambered after his friend, who was already on his way into the hall. By now, it was going on forty-four hours since Sammy disappeared—almost two whole days. Thanks to their brief conversation on the phone, Dean knew three things. The kid was alive. (Good!) He was thinking clearly, which meant he had his fix. (Not good!) And he was scared. (Crap!) He actually feared detoxing more than he feared hallucinating Lucifer!

Oddly enough, in hindsight, that wasn't too surprising. Even when Sam was locked in the psychiatric ward of that hospital, sleep-deprived and at his breaking point, he could still contain himself. Most of the time, anyway. He resigned himself to a slow, miserable death and coped with remarkable stoicism.

But during withdrawal, he couldn't control anything—not even his own body! They had to chain him to the friggin' bed to keep the blood from tossing him around the room. The sound of his screams made Dean flash back to hell, and he didn't want to consider the source of those cries—the unspeakable torture. During withdrawal, Sam lost everything—every shred of strength, hope, dignity, faith, and self-possession—and it was no wonder he would rather die than suffer through it again.

They had to find him. Now.

Eventually, they reached the library where an open laptop was sitting on the desk. Castiel motioned for Dean to take a look, and he quickly obliged, observing a news website with a video segment called, "Eight Dead in Magical Murder Spree."

Magical Murder Spree?

Dean hit play and watched closely as a well-dressed woman appeared on the screen. "This is Jewell Myers reporting outside Prosperity's Bar and Grill in downtown Tulsa. Earlier this evening, five men and three women tragically lost their lives during an incident that witnesses are now calling a magical rampage."

The camera cut to a devastated group of survivors. The girls were obviously hysterical, crying and talking over each other, trying to make sense of a senseless ordeal while their boyfriends failed to comfort them.

"It was crazy!"

"She killed him with her fingernails!"

"How's that even possible?"

"She was able to throw three large men across the room without even touching them!"

Cut back to Jewell Myers. "To corroborate these claims, one witness has released live footage from the event, taken with a phone camera. The material you are about to see is violent and may not be suitable for children. Viewer discretion is advised."

A moment later, the scene changed to inside the bar. Dean stiffened as he caught sight of Abaddon mutilating a man with her bare hands. Son of a bitch! The camera was shaking as everyone panicked, but the footage was unmistakable—an unarmed woman was picking off a bunch of people with superhuman strength.

Suddenly, Abaddon turned her attention from a blonde girl with a guitar over to a tall, furious young man, and Dean's heart sprang to his throat.

"Sammy!"

Abaddon approached his brother with typical haughtiness. Dean couldn't hear what they were saying, but if he had to guess, they were probably discussing an obvious stalemate. Abaddon reached up to stroke his face. Sam grabbed her wrist; she grabbed his other wrist. Sam managed to punch her, and she retaliated by wrenching his arm behind his back and forcing him to his knees.

With the bitch distracted, the crowd began scrambling for the exits.

Abaddon glanced up.

Sam tried tearing himself free.

She grabbed him by the neck.

They vanished, literally into thin air.

As Jewell Myers appeared back on the screen, commenting on the video, Dean sat in complete shock. He had just seen his brother kidnapped by a friggin' Knight of Hell! For all he knew, Sam could be dead by now, and the thought left him paralyzed. Oh, God! No. This couldn't be happening.

But it was.

"Dean?" Castiel asked in a gentle voice. "If she wanted to kill him, she would have, just like her other victims. Sam's alive. You need to believe that."

Dean nodded, but wasn't remotely encouraged—his imagination was frantically listing the different ways Abaddon might treat a prisoner.

Just when he thought this nightmare couldn't get any worse…

Meanwhile, the Mark on his arm began to burn.

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Honestly, I'm surprised we don't see more of the media on the show. They'll cover anything to boost their ratings, and some nosy reporter could potentially be as troublesome as the police. IDK. Anyway, I really hope you liked this chapter. More of Sam and Abaddon coming soon!_

 _ **Please Review!**_


	12. The Game

**SPN**

Sam wasn't sure how much more of this he could take. He had been sitting in the dark for hours now (or was it days?) with Abaddon curled up against him, caressing him like a pet. It was humiliating, but more than that, it was agonizing. Sam told himself it could be worse—at least she wasn't hurting him—but that was hardly reassuring. Abaddon was not the type of demon who would settle for creepy cuddling. She was working her way up to something, and if she was content to wait this long, it was bound to be horrific.

The sulfur permeating the room didn't help. Every once in awhile, Abaddon would touch him in a certain way that, combined with the infernal smell, awakened memories of the cage. Sam could almost hear Lucifer whispering, _"There's no rush, kiddo… Just relax… Let me do all the work… Ssshhh…"_

He would panic, thrashing wildly against his restraints—they rattled loudly in the empty black void surrounding him. But then Abaddon would moan, or sigh, or laugh, and the sound was a genuine relief, because it assured Sam he was somewhere on earth—not the cage—with a demon, perhaps—but not with _him_.

Not with him.

Never again.

Please.

After countless more hours of that, Sam felt the tears in his eyes. With the chains holding his wrists over his head, the muscles in his back, arms, and shoulders were practically on fire. His face flushed. His mouth felt dry. The gag was suffocating. Why wouldn't this bitch just leave him alone? Didn't she have better things to do? Like killing Crowley? What the hell did she want from him!?

She wanted the horsemen rings—the key to the cage. All this attention was simply to whittle away his defenses so he would tell her how to unleash Lucifer. He had to fight! But if her tactics were already getting under his skin, how much worse would they be when his cravings returned?

Oh, God… He didn't trust himself to fight. Where was Dean?

Finally, he felt her shifting her weight to the side, as if reaching for something on the floor. He strained his ears, listening, but aside from his chains, her rustling clothes, and the sound of dripping water, he couldn't hear anything. God, this blindness really sucked.

"Here we go," Abaddon said, repositioning her legs to straddle Sam's. He could almost feel her watching him, and flinched when her nails gently grazed his chest. "That was nice, little prince. I feel so revitalized." She suddenly nipped his ear, catching him off guard. The sharp pain made him gasp, and he bucked anxiously.

Abaddon giggled. "Sorry, love. I just can't help myself—I have all this energy." Her knees squeezed his hips. "Maybe we should play a game. What do you say?"

His breathing picked up as she brushed her fingers through his hair.

"I know a good one. It's just delightful, and a cinch to learn. Basically, you're going to sit perfectly still, and not make a peep, while I try to pester you." She squeezed his hips even tighter, just for emphasis, and he objected with a nervous, muffled shout—which only earned him a slap on the chest. "Just to be clear, that's called making a peep. You have to be quiet, little prince, or I score a point. And if I score a point, I can do this." She pressed her mouth to his neck and sucked aggressively. Sam recoiled, writhing desperately while kicking his legs as far as the fetters allowed—maybe two or three inches.

Abaddon laughed as she pulled away. "Come on, little prince, you're not even trying! How 'bout this? If I score ten points, I win. And if I win, I'm taking you all the way to home base."

Sam froze, heart pounding. She couldn't be serious, could she?

Of course she was.

"That's more like it," Abaddon cooed. "Good boy…" She pinched his cheek, and he forced down his reaction.

 _Dean…_

"Now then, I want you to listen." She paused, holding her breath. The ensuing hush magnified the dripping water. "You hear that?" she asked. It was constant, steady, rhythmic.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Flustered, Sam bit down on his gag. Up to that moment, he'd been able to block it out, too preoccupied with his current predicament to dwell on any background noise, but now, it was loud and aggravating.

Abaddon tapped his chest, keeping the beat. "Drip. Drip. Drip." Her voice sent chills down his spine. "Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip."

He clenched his fists, straining not to move.

"Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip."

Something crackled angrily, and a white flash caught his attention. What the—?

A searing spark of electricity zapped his thigh, jolting the muscles. Sam yelped, too surprised to stop himself.

Crap!

"Oh, you like that, do you?" Abaddon teased, removing the weapon. Darkness swiftly returned. "It was hand-made by yours truly. Just think of it as a demonic stun gun." She tenderly ran her fingers through his hair. "Now then, shall I claim my prize?" Sam groaned as she stood to reach his forearm. She sucked and nibbled for a good thirty seconds before plopping back down. "Score One for the Queen. Shall we try again?"

Sam braced himself as she picked up the beat, tapping his chest. "Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip." She went on for several minutes, leaving him in prolonged suspense before shocking him again—this time in the stomach—hitting the chain that wrapped around his waist. The crackling sparks were joined by a sizzling hiss. Sam's eyes widened at the sudden intense heat, and despite everything, he squirmed wretchedly, whimpering in pain. Unfortunately, the movement inflamed his skin as the chains chafed his raw blisters. He seized up, slamming his head against the backrest of the damn throne.

"Mmpphh!"

Abaddon giggled as she removed the weapon—the crackling stopped, but the heat lingered. "Oh, you poor little prince. If you don't try harder, this game will be over too fast!" She promptly latched onto his ear, sucking, biting, licking, moaning…

Sam trembled as a tear slid down his face.

A full minute later, Abaddon sat back and sighed blissfully. "Isn't this fun?" She resumed tapping his chest. "Round Three, sweetheart. I know you can do it. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip."

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _A very special thanks to_ _ **Sammysmissingshoe**_ _. I couldn't have done this without you. :-)_

 _ **Please Review!**_


	13. The Brink

**SPN**

From the outside looking in, Crowley had to admit Abaddon's base of operations—an abandoned penitentiary in Wyoming, not too far from Samuel Colt's devil's trap—was both practical and awe-inspiring. Surrounded by wilderness, with massive gates and a series of looming watchtowers, it was a veritable fortress that defied intrusion. Sneaking in to rescue Sam would be… well… a neat trick. If not suicide. Especially considering the meatsuits Abaddon hand-selected for her favorite minions. Cops. Soldiers. Grunts.

Bollocks.

With the morning sun chasing the night away, Crowley took shelter in the trees, one hundred and fifty yards from the sally port. What was he even doing here? Those boys weren't his responsibility, and they certainly weren't worth his life. True, they could occasionally be useful, especially with Abaddon in the picture, but they were also to blame for his kingdom's downfall. They locked him in their bloody basement for months on end! They hooked him on human blood! What did he care if the bitch killed Sam?

Except she wasn't planning to kill Sam. Back in that bar, Crowley overheard their whole conversation. _"Why am I just now finding out you're the little prince? … How'd you do it? How could you possibly trap his majesty down in that wretched cage? … The sixty-six seals were all destroyed, and they can't just be repaired. By all rights, the door to the cage should be wide open for the rest of eternity. But it's not. Somehow, you and your brother must have changed the locks, and I want the key."_

The horsemen rings.

She was going to torture Sam for information to free Lucifer—the Knights of Hell were infamous for their loyalty—and if the boy broke, Crowley was screwed. Dean might be able to kill Abaddon with the First Blade, but the devil was a completely different story. If he escaped the cage, he was bound to stalk Crowley to the ends of the universe to make him beg for death—which Crowley would very much like to avoid.

Unfortunately, Sam was in no condition to withstand torture. He was drinking demon blood, and the moment his cravings kicked in, he would tell Abaddon anything for a fix. He had to be saved. Or better yet, killed.

No, not killed! If Sam died, Dean would blame Crowley, and if he blamed Crowley, he wouldn't kill Abaddon.

Rolling his eyes, Crowley fished through his coat pockets for a needle and syringe. Quitting was too difficult. Why not embrace his addiction? Of course, deep down, he knew it was affecting his judgment, but hell! He was a demon! Iniquity ought to be a perk.

At that moment, his phone vibrated. Naturally.

Holding back a sigh, Crowley pulled out the device and checked the Caller ID. Not Moose. Perfect.

He didn't have to answer. He didn't owe the cocky little brat a damn thing. He was the bloody King of Hell, and he deserved some respect! Why put up with Dean's belligerence?

But he couldn't help himself. Abaddon was planning to free Lucifer, and she wouldn't rest until she had those rings. Sooner or later, Sam would break. They were up against the clock, and like it or not, they had to work together. Swallowing his pride, Crowley accepted the call. "Squirrel." His voice was stiff and caustic.

So was Dean's. "Crowley. Where's my brother?"

"What makes you think I know?"

"Cause I just interviewed a very nice waitress from Prosperity's Bar and Grill down in Tulsa, and she claimed a sleazy British dick in a black suit bought Sam a drink right before he was kidnapped by Abaddon. I wonder who that sounds like?"

Crowley growled. "You know, I risked my life approaching him, trying to get him back for you, so we can resume our shaky allegiance to slaughter Abaddon, and consequently, I was able to follow them back to the bitch's lair—so yes, I do know where he is. And if you thank me for my remarkable feats of valor, I might even help you rescue him."

"You expect me to thank you?"

"I expect you to beg! The fate of the world might be the least of your worries, but the fate of your brother is everything—and right now, he's trapped with the worst monster this side of the cage! So for once in your miserable life, show me some gratitude, and beg for my help, or you can find him yourself!"

A pause. Crowley could well imagine the look of fury on Dean's face, and it was exhilarating—an unexpected high. Dangerous, but oh, so satisfying. Who needs blood when you can have a Winchester?

"Fine," Dean eventually caved, much to Crowley's delight. "I appreciate your assistance." His words were scathing. "And I need your help. I'm begging you. Please."

Crowley sighed. "Well, I wouldn't call it your best performance, but it will do. Now then, might I suggest we strategize somewhere with some coffee?"

 **SPN**

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

They were on Round Seven, and Abaddon was thrilled with the boy's progress. He really managed to step up his game after Round Four, anticipating each assault by the preceding sparks, and withstanding the pain like a seasoned veteran—which he no doubt was.

Of course, Abaddon loved a challenge, and she countered by triggering her weapon without making contact. Sam would brace himself at the crackling, flashing energy, expecting a jolt that did not come, and the false alarm wreaked havoc on his nerves. Ten minutes of that, and when she finally did strike him, he whimpered nicely for her. Abaddon cherished the sound.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

By now, he was so tense, so on edge, he was a breath away from defeat. Well, maybe 'defeat' was too strong a word. He still wouldn't talk. But aside from his stubborn refusal to cooperate, any lingering traces of hostility were gone, replaced with fear and despair. Abaddon found the misery in his eyes, the utter helplessness, both encouraging and arousing. No wonder Alastair was perpetually in a good mood—back when he was alive, anyway. Abaddon could keep this up forever.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Gradually, Sam's breathing changed. His heartbeat changed. His whole demeanor changed. The shift was barely perceptible, but Abaddon noticed. Her lips curled upwards as he shied away, shaking his head and rattling his chains.

"Mphff-mph-mff-mmpphhh…"

The poor little thing just lost his concentration, and with it, the last of his control.

His cravings were back.

He was finally ready.

He was finally hers.

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _If you have any suggestions for Sam's withdrawal, tell me now! I can't promise I'll use them, but I'd still love to hear them._

 _ **Please Review!**_


	14. Fall

_**Author's Note:**_ _This chapter was the most emotionally draining chapter I've written in awhile. I hope you enjoy it, and please tell me what you think!_

 **SPN**

Dean could hardly believe what he was hearing. It never occurred to him that anyone would ever try using the Horsemen Rings to reopen the cage, and the very thought left him sick to his stomach. After everything they went through, why did the devil's imprisonment have to be so precarious?

He was sitting with Castiel and Crowley at a table in a very public coffee shop where the demon felt somewhat safe from the hunter's wrath. After all, Dean couldn't deny the Mark was making him erratic, and Sam's predicament was only exacerbating his condition. If it weren't for the presence of a dozen civilians, he might very well have lashed out with Castiel's angel blade.

"I trust you buried the bling somewhere secure?" Crowley inquired as Dean absently rubbed his arm.

"Yeah, more or less," he said with a shrug. "But I had to return Death's so he would pull Sam's soul out of the cage."

Crowley tossed up his hands. "Well, isn't that marvelous? If I can whip up a binding spell for you lot to enslave the prick, you better believe Abaddon can too. She might as well have his blasted ring already."

Castiel leaned forward. "This could be to our advantage. We know what she wants, and we have three out of four. We can use them as bait, draw her out, and kill her."

As much as Dean liked the idea, it would never be that easy. "Abaddon knows what we're up to with the Mark and the First Blade. She'll expect a trap. Plus, she has Sam for leverage. I've been down this road before, and it cost Henry his life. I'm not risking my brother's."

Crowley sighed. "She won't kill him, Dean. He's Lucifer's vessel. She needs him alive."

Was that supposed to be a comfort? Dean scowled. "Of course that means she's either drowning him in demon blood or depriving him altogether, making him detox. I don't know which is worse."

"We need to get inside that prison," Castiel observed.

Crowley scoffed. "Are you delusional? You want to storm the castle?" They glared impatiently at each other, but Crowley wasn't finished. "In case you forgot, we're dealing with a Knight of Hell. If you think she hasn't angel-proofed her lair with Enochian sigils, you're even dumber than you look. And considering how much she wants my head on a plate, there's no way I'm getting in without tripping some alarms. Sneaking in is out of the question."

"So where's that leave us?" Dean asked.

Neither angel nor demon could think of a decent answer.

 **SPN**

" _Look man, I've been to hell. Okay? I know a thing or two about torture. Enough to know that it feels different… than the pain of this, this regular, stupid, crappy this."_

Sam was suffocating. He didn't know if it was the oppressive darkness, or the dripping water, or the noxious sulfur, but he couldn't take in air, and his lungs were screaming. Instinctively, he writhed against his restraints—he had to get out! He had to breathe!

The chains around his waist dug painfully into his burnt flesh. The others rattled mockingly as they held fast to his arms and legs—unyielding tendrils that refused to let him go. He strained with everything he had, but it wasn't enough. He was going to die.

" _This is different. Right? Than the crap that's tearing at your walnut? I'm different. Right?"_

No… This was real. It wasn't a nightmare. It wasn't a hallucination. It was very, very real. Sam's gag was smothering him, and someone was standing behind the throne, reaching around to plug his nose with ice-cold fingers. He didn't even have to think about who they belonged to, and a fresh wave of panic made him renew his struggling.

 _Please, God, no! No, no, no, no!_

"Ssshhh," the familiar voice cooed with false affection. "I'm right here, Sam. Everything's going to be okay… I won't let you suffocate. Trust me. I've got you…"

Nothing gave Lucifer more satisfaction that reminding Sam how dependent he was on his bunkmate for everything—even breathing. They would spend years like this, with Lucifer on top, demanding all of Sam's attention. He wasn't content to simply snap his fingers and magically remove Sam's lungs the way Zachariah did that one time. Oh, no. He preferred the intimacy of hands-on abuse.

Ever so slowly, the devil circled around the throne, hand still clamped over Sam's face. An eerie blue glow lit the room—except, they weren't in a room. They were in a cramped box with iron bars, suspended by chains in a foggy void. The cage.

"MMMPPPPHHHH!"

Sam bucked wildly, twisting and squirming in terror. This couldn't be happening! He got out! This wasn't… He couldn't…

"That's right," Lucifer said, leaning in with a smug smile. "Home sweet home. Did you really think you could run away? Where's that ever gotten you?"

Gradually, Sam's vision tunneled as the oxygen deprivation took its toll. His strength drained out of his limbs, and he sagged pathetically in his seat. He would have spilled to the ground if not for his restraints.

This was the worst part. Practically sedated, unable to breathe, unable to fight, he could do nothing but watch his captor getting off on his helplessness. Somewhere in the immediate vicinity, he knew Michael and Adam must also be present, but they weren't a part of this moment. They never were. Sam belonged to Lucifer, and he didn't like to share his toys.

"I've missed you, roomie," he whispered, running his free hand down Sam's chest. His touch was indescribably cold, and Sam felt sob forming in his throat. "I mean, Adam's good for an occasional quickie, but most of the time, he's not worth the effort. He's trash, Sam. Torturing someone like that is torture in itself. I'd rather just vaporize him, put him out of his misery, but I know how you feel about family, so I thought I'd wait for you to watch."

The longer he spoke, the more Sam despaired. There was no doubt in his mind. This was the cage. He was really here. With Lucifer. And he was never getting out.

But then dozens of candles flickered to life, and the devil was gone. Sam gasped, panting frantically through his gag while taking in his new surroundings. How? Where? What?

His throne presided on a raised dais in the back of a large, windowless chamber. Overhead, industrial catwalks skirted the concrete walls, and through the shadows, he caught glimpses of demons watching from afar. Had they been here this whole time?

A sudden, loud, sizzling noise cut into the silence, and he snapped his head around to find Abaddon ten feet away, standing by an instrument table on the ground floor. In her hand, she gripped a long, thin rod tipped with a branding iron that looked like a goat skull. The intense fiery sheen made Sam cringe.

Tossing her hair over her shoulders, Abaddon glanced up at him with a malicious smile. "Don't worry, little prince. Playtime's over. This is strictly business." She climbed the dais steps and shoved the iron directly over his tattoo.

The pain was blinding. Sam barely heard his sizzling skin as he howled through his gag. Damn it! Where was Dean? Someone, help him! Please!

A hand latched onto his hair and roughly yanked his head back. He yelped, staring up in horror at his father's face. No, no, no!

"Hey there, Sammy," the old man growled with a predatory glint in his eyes. "I should have known better than to trust Dean with a freak like you. He's too soft. Could've saved the world a lot of trouble if I just took care of you myself."

Sam shuddered at the hatred in his voice. The animosity. Even when they were at each other's throats, arguing just for the sake of arguing, their frustration never quite reached this degree of contempt. John never treated Sam like a monster, and to have him now bearing down on him—as if he were some kind of demon in need of slaughtering—hurt more than he ever imagined.

"Look at you!" John derisively exclaimed. "You call yourself a Winchester? You call yourself strong? You're a joke, Sam, and I'll never understand how something as evil as Lucifer could require something as lame as you."

Sam objected weakly—as much as the gag allowed—but he shouldn't be surprised by his father's cruelty. John was a hunter, just like Gordon. Of course he'd feel this way. Besides, Sam deserved it. He was such a screw-up.

"Ssshhhh…" Abaddon leaned over him, cradling his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her—she had such bright, crimson lips. What must her blood taste like? He was so thirsty!

"Don't try to talk," she advised, gently tugging the gag from his mouth. "It won't do you any good." Once she extracted the cloth, Sam breathed in, desperate for air. (If only it was free of sulfur!) Panting miserably, he ran his dry tongue over his parched lips, unable to relieve them. Abaddon watched, feigning sympathy as she smoothed a lock of his hair behind his ear.

"I know you're uncomfortable, little prince, but it's almost over. I just need you to think about the key to the cage."

Sam shook his head. "No!"

"Picture it in your mind," she insisted, slowly slicing her forearm with her own fingernail. Sam's heart skipped a beat, and he stared at the blood with wide eyes. Abaddon smirked. "It's yours if you want it, little prince. But first, you have to cooperate. Show me the key."

Before he could fully process the meaning of her demand, a wisp of black smoke swirled out of her mouth and straight into his. He stiffened, horrified, but it was too late. She was inside him.

The next thing he knew, memories were flooding to the forefront of his mind. Memories of the Horsemen. Memories of War. Famine. Pestilence. Death. Memories of the rings. He pictured all four of them conjoined together in a fearsome triangle.

" _Bevo-tamoen tabegesah baba-loen."_

He was standing in the cemetery at the edge of the abyss.

 _Just close your eyes and fall._

 _There's really nothing easier._

 _Don't think about what's coming. Don't think about the next ten minutes._

 _Just think about this moment._

 _Make amends._

 _Save Dean._

 _Fall._

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	15. Trapped

**SPN**

He landed hard on the floor of a well-lit room, far from the cage, and far from Abaddon. A soft electrical hum was droning in the distance, but aside from that, everything was quiet and still. Almost peaceful—except for the agonizing pain.

Sam moaned, reluctant to move. The blisters around his waist had been scraped raw, and the deep burn on his chest was scorching his nerves. His wrists were bruised, his head was throbbing, and his whole body felt splattered with angry welts from Abaddon's wandering mouth. Was it finally over? Where was he? Where was Dean?

Thoroughly exhausted, Sam raised his head from the ground. He was home, in the library of the bunker. How?

"Dean?"

No answer.

Suddenly anxious, Sam pushed up to his hands and knees. How did he get here? Where was his brother? Why did he have such a bitter taste in his mouth? His arms were shaking, making it difficult not to collapse—which he couldn't afford to do. Something was wrong. "Dean!?"

Using a desk for support, he climbed awkwardly to his feet and surveyed the room. Everything seemed to be in place. All the lamps, chairs, books, files—even the giant telescope.

But then he saw it. On the other side of the desk, Kevin's body was sprawled out lifelessly on the floor, defaced with two gaping cavities where his eyes should have been.

Sam's knees buckled; bile rose in the back of his throat. He struggled to breathe—struggled to see as he fought back tears.

Kevin was gone, and no matter what Dean said, it was Sam's fault. Sam's, because he failed the third trial. He failed to shut the Gates of Hell. After everything Kevin went through to translate the tablet, after everything he suffered, everything he endured, Sam let him down. And then, when he finally had the chance to die himself, to rest in peace, he let Dean talk him out of it. He let Dean manipulate him, and Kevin paid the price. It wasn't fair! It should have been Sam. Not Kevin.

"You know, I couldn't have done it without you."

Sam jumped at the unexpected voice. Whipping around, he discovered an imposing man around his brother's height, wearing jeans and a hooded sweater beneath a leather jacket. He was easy to recognize, though Sam had only seen him once, and as he approached the hunter, Sam instinctively shuffled back.

"Stay away from me!"

Gadreel didn't listen. His eyes were cold; his jaw was taut; his whole posture was intimidating. As it turned out, he was the traitor responsible for humanity's corruption—he allowed Lucifer into the Garden. Of all the angels in the cosmos, why did Sam always attract the rebellious psychopaths? Now, as Gadreel slowly but steadily crossed the distance between them, backing Sam up against the wall, his expression was venomous.

"Angels don't kill prophets," he sternly explained, making Sam avert his eyes. "It goes against our very nature—we are designed to serve the Lord and do his bidding. We are called to protect prophets. I could not have killed Kevin Tran under any other circumstances; I could not have killed him without you."

"Shut up," Sam objected shakily.

"From the moment I occupied your broken body, I knew. I could sense it. You are tainted, Sam Winchester. And not just with demon blood. You are soaked in the Adversary's grace, and it is liberating."

"It's also mine," a familiar voice snidely interrupted. Sam's heart sank at the sound. Lucifer had appeared out of nowhere and was now watching with crossed arms. Gadreel tensed, sharing Sam's alarm as he guardedly squared off against his older brother.

"Lucifer, I… I meant no disrespect."

"Really?" Lucifer wasn't convinced—or amused. "You accost my vessel— _my_ vessel—and you meant no disrespect?"

Gadreel flinched. "He was dying. I saved his life!"

Lucifer nodded appreciatively. "So you felt entitled to make him your bitch?" Sam shuddered at the devil's unwelcome indignation. He wasn't Lucifer's property! And yet, he couldn't bring himself to interject.

"Come on, little brother," Lucifer continued scornfully. "Did you really think you could get away with touching my stuff?" He flicked his wrist, and Gadreel's face contorted in pain. He sank to his knees, doubling over as blood spilled out of his mouth. A subsequent gesture from Lucifer sent him soaring across the room, where he crashed into a bookshelf and toppled to the floor.

Suddenly, there was nothing separating Sam from his stalker, and as Lucifer turned his sights onto the boy, he never felt more exposed or vulnerable.

"Don't!" he begged, raising his arms defensively as Lucifer sauntered towards him.

"You know, Sam, I have to apologize for Gadreel's behavior. I can't imagine how stressful it must have been for you." He easily knocked Sam's arms aside as he leaned in close—and there was nothing Sam could do to stop him. He remembered all too well watching Lucifer kill the Norse god, Baldur—with his bare fist! The devil was more powerful than he could ever hope to be, and fighting was pointless.

"You were never meant for him, kiddo," he said, stroking Sam's chest with his frigid hands; Sam gasped at the biting cold. "You were meant for me. Having someone else inside you—especially a stranger—that's just offensive—and violating. You must have been traumatized, you poor thing."

Sam tried shoving Lucifer away, but the devil shoved back, pinning him against the wall. By now, their legs were touching, and Sam felt a sickening wave of déjà vu. "No. Please."

"Ssshhh…" Lucifer brought a finger to Sam's lips. "Try to relax. You've been hurt—believe me, I understand—but you're back where you belong now, and I'm going to fix whatever damage my little brother might have caused. Don't worry. I know it's been awhile, so I'll try to be gentle."

He dropped his hand to Sam's midriff and plunged in mercilessly. There was a radiant burst of light that resonated with celestial harmony as he penetrated Sam's physical body to reach his soul. The contact was excruciating—so cold it burned—and so invasive, he could feel Lucifer fondling the deepest, most private particles of his being. Words could not describe the sensation, and Sam wailed in pure, unbridled anguish.

"That's my boy," Lucifer encouraged, brushing the hair out of Sam's face. Meanwhile, the bunker ebbed away like a fading mirage, and they were back in the cage, trapped together for all of eternity.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	16. Incursion

**SPN**

"This is a bad idea," Castiel said, standing beside Dean in the trees outside Abaddon's fortress. It was the middle of the afternoon, and the sun was gradually making its descent in the west. Sam had been a prisoner for eighteen hours now—eighteen hours with a Knight of Hell, while jonesing for demon blood. As far as Dean was concerned, his baby brother was stuck in a burning building, with no way out, and he couldn't just sit around waiting for help to arrive. Help wasn't coming, and if Dean had to risk the flames to rescue Sam, he sure as hell would.

"I've done it before," he pointed out, remarkably calm as he channeled all his fear and anger into pure resolve. Now that he had a mission—a clear objective—he could focus again. No more uncertainty; no more panic; no more helplessness. His brother was inside that prison, and Dean would happily slaughter anything that stood between them. Normally, Cas would too, but this time, his hands were tied.

"Crowley was right about the angel warding," he complained. "I can feel it. Abaddon's sigils are even more potent than his. For all we know, you could be facing an army of demons, and I won't be able to back you up. You'll be on your own."

"Well, then it's a good thing he's heavily armed," Crowley said, appearing next to them. Despite his nonchalant tone, his frown was just as deep as the angel's. In his hands, he clutched a leather bundle that immediately caught Dean's attention. "You'll have one chance, Squirrel. Screw it up, and we'll all be wishing for quick deaths—none more so than Sam. Are you absolutely certain you want to pursue such a reckless endeavor?"

"Just give me the Blade," Dean barked, holding out his hand.

Crowley hesitated, no doubt mindful of his own vulnerability. "Don't forget, the gates to the penitentiary are sealed shut. I can blast them open for you, but not until you're a safe distance away. Understand? If you kill me, you'll have to find your own way in."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Have you always been such a tight-ass, Crowley? Give me the damn Blade."

He could feel it calling out to the Mark, and it was magnetizing. He had to have it. Now.

Crowley and Castiel exchanged nervous glances, but they already agreed to this, and with the horsemen rings at stake, they couldn't afford to backtrack.

"Very well," the demon said, uncovering the ancient jawbone. With an air of reluctance, he offered it up to Dean, who snatched it hungrily.

The effects were instantaneous. Power emanated from the Mark—making it glow, making it burn. Dean's arm shook violently as the power rushed from the Mark to the Blade, filling it with unholy potential. It was euphoric, spreading throughout his body, and he tensed in momentary alarm.

" _That's it… Good…"_ He could hear Magnus' voice echoing in his memory. _"Next time, it'll be easier. You'll get used to the feelings—even welcome them."_

No… This power was evil—it sprang from murder—from fratricide. What made him think he could wield it to rescue Sam when, by nature, it would eventually seek Sam's life?

From the corner of his eye, Dean recognized the dismay on Castiel's face. He felt it, too. This weapon was Cain's, and no matter what Cain said about saving his brother's soul, it wasn't noble, or courageous, or redemptive. It was pathetic, gutless, and weak. Cain saw Lucifer corrupting Abel. Instead of staging an intervention, instead of helping his brother, he made the decision to trade places. He gave up.

 _If you can't save him, you'll have to kill him…_

Cain didn't even try.

He made Abel's choice for him, no questions asked.

And he killed him.

Deep down, Dean realized… that's what scared Sam. It scared him more than anything.

" _So, again, you thought I couldn't handle something, so you took over!"_

" _No, I did what I had to do! You would've never agreed to it, and you would've died."_

" _Well, maybe I would've liked the choice, at least."_

Cain never gave Abel a choice. He believed he was making the right call, so he took over, and Dean was following in his footsteps. Even if he didn't kill Sam, the Blade would destroy whatever relationship they still had—and somehow, Dean would find a way to justify it, just like Cain. He couldn't… He couldn't do that to his little brother!

But he didn't have a choice. The First Blade was the only weapon that could eliminate the Knights of Hell. It was the only way to kill Abaddon.

It was worth the risk.

Steeling himself, Dean turned to face the prison. "Well… Here goes nothing."

 **SPN**

Abaddon had to admit, she was enraptured. When she read Sam's mind, she glimpsed so much more than his recollections—she glimpsed his hallucinations, and they were exquisite. From her secret vantage point, she was able to witness their master—the one true King—strumming Sam's soul like a harp, and she eagerly beheld his scars—they were deep and extraordinary. As an expert in the field, she could appreciate the damage done to the boy. By all rights, his humanity should have been stripped away long ago. How was he not a demon?

Obviously, because their master wouldn't allow it.

The demonizing process might be heartless and cruel, but some would argue it was also a relief. A coping mechanism. Demons didn't suffer the way humans did—they were stronger and more pain-resistant. Some—like Alastair—even embraced the inferno. Abaddon could understand why her master would deny that from Sam. He was more vulnerable as a human, which made him more fun to play with.

Presently, he was immersed in a mental fabrication of the cage. Abaddon had never seen it before, but from what she could gather, Sam had spent over a hundred and twenty years in its cramped confines—it was literally his home. She always wondered what the place looked like. Now she knew. How fascinating.

Her master had him pinned up against the bars with his feet dangling off the ground—his grip was firm, but tender—fondling souls required a degree of finesse. Meanwhile, Sam was writhing frantically—like a drowning victim—but he didn't have the strength to struggle—he barely had the strength to scream. His cries were plaintive and hopeless—like music to Abaddon's ears.

"Sam, Sam, Sam," his majesty purred, clucking his tongue. "Your condition's even worse than I feared. Haven't you been taking care of yourself? I hate to say it, but this might not be a quick fix." He smiled blissfully, maneuvering his arm in a way that made Sam jerk. "Stay with me, buddy. No checking out. The pain is good for you."

Sam shook his head, whimpering. "Please…"

"Too much? We can always try a different position. How do you feel about… this?" He wiggled his arm, and Sam screamed.

Abaddon basked in the sound.

But then, her attention was caught by a distant, unauthorized explosion. While Sam remained fully engrossed in his hallucination, she was still conscious of her environment—and she scowled at the distraction. Who would dare…?

Withdrawing from Sam's body, she pricked her ears—ever vigilant—and sure enough, there soon came a second explosion, followed closely by a third. It would appear they were under attack. Swell.

"Someone's gonna pay for this," she grumbled, reaching for the discarded cloth on the ground. Wadding it up, she forced it back in Sam's mouth and resecured his gag. He flinched, awake, but delirious—Abaddon never imagined his withdrawal would be so delightful. How could she just leave him here, knowing he would keep on suffering without her? She didn't want to miss a moment of his ordeal.

But it couldn't be helped. Business before pleasure.

Besides, she could always feed him more blood tomorrow, if only to repeat the process. They could make it a regular part of their routine—at least until she retrieved those rings and released her master. These were such exciting times.

"Don't go anywhere, little prince," she whispered, stroking Sam face. "I won't be long."

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	17. Search and Destroy

**SPN**

With the treeline a hundred and fifty yards from the prison gates, Dean had to cross a wide-open field with no cover to reach the sally port. He was completely exposed, and more vulnerable than ever. If Abaddon had long-range snipers posted on those watchtowers, they could kill him in a heartbeat—he wouldn't be able to stop them. It was a dangerous gamble. Plenty of demons would love to shoot him dead in his tracks.

But then again, they weren't that smart. As far as they could tell, Dean was alone, desperate, and basically defenseless. Why kill him quickly when they could play with him first? If he was really lucky, they might have orders to convey him straight to Abaddon for questioning. All things considered, the likelihood of being executed on sight was relatively low.

Still, it was a reckless plan, and he could understand why Castiel was so apprehensive. Dean, however, felt remarkably calm. With the First Blade in hand, he was undeniably powerful. Invincible. Superior. These demons had no idea what they were up against. Neither did Abaddon. He was a force to be reckoned with, and they would pay for threatening his brother.

Twenty yards from the gate, he stopped and stared. Through the chain-link fence, he could see well over a dozen thugs looking back at him with a mixture of disdain, curiosity, and amusement. Naturally, they were dressed in dark fatigues with Kevlar vests—no fancy business suits for Abaddon's followers. These sons of bitches were relentless, blood-thirsty animals, and they weren't the least bit fazed by a solitary hunter.

"Dean!" one called out to him maliciously. "I'm impressed! You actually managed to find the Queen's fortress! Congratulations! But if you're here for an audience, I'm afraid you'll have to relinquish your weapons like a good little boy!"

Several of his cohorts chuckled at his patronizing welcome, but Dean didn't reply. It wasn't worth the effort.

At that moment, the ground started quaking and a rumble of thunder preceded the sudden rupture of the sally port's double gates—just like Crowley promised. As the demons shuffled back in bewilderment, Dean charged forward, pulling out a small bomb from the tactical vest concealed beneath his coat. Triggering the fuse, he hurled the explosive into the compound and braced himself against the outside fence. His enemies never knew what hit them—the bomb wasn't an ordinary bomb. Rather, it was a vehicle for multiple ingredients that combined to produce a demon-killing shock wave. The blast was quick and forceful, propelling every demon in its radius off their feet while reducing them to ash.

Dean smiled grimly. _Thank you, Kevin._

Having cleared a path, he ventured through the broken gates and made his way across the compound towards the giant facility—three stories tall, it possessed five concrete wings jutting out like spokes on a wheel. In hindsight, he should have researched the place. Maybe he could have found a floor plan or something. Sam certainly would have. God, he needed his brother… Oh well. It was too late to worry about that.

As he climbed the steps to the central hub, three demons filed out to meet him. The leader swept out his arm, and a gust of energy hit Dean in the face like a gust of wind. Normally, it would have knocked him back and pinned him down, leaving him at the demon's mercy, but now, with the Mark of Cain and the First Blade both empowering him, he was happily immune.

Brandishing his unholy weapon, Dean slashed the demon's throat. As he fell in a burst of crimson light, Dean proceeded to the next in line, dodging a right hook while cutting the bastard's knee. He screamed, buckling to the ground in obvious agony, which thrilled the hunter. He wasn't expecting this to be so much fun!

The third demon came at him with a knife of his own. Dean easily blocked and countered by stabbing him in the gut—his Kevlar vest did nothing to protect him from the supernatural Blade. Dean dropped him on the ground and made quick work of the crippled survivor, relishing the kill.

Then, just to be safe, he pulled out another bomb from under his coat, triggered the fuse, and tossed it into the building. When the blast subsided, he ducked through the door, entering an empty lobby. The lights were off, the cinder-block walls were covered in grime, the main counter was bare, and everything was quiet.

What now? Searching the place would take hours—there had to be over three hundred cells—and he didn't know where to begin. Finding Sam would be like finding a needle in a haystack, which really sucked.

On the other hand, there could still be demons lurking in the shadows—not to mention Abaddon. If Dean treated the search-and-rescue more like a search-and-destroy, the hunt would be therapeutic. Even exhilarating.

 **SPN**

So the rumors were true. Dean not only bore the Mark of Cain, he also carried the First Blade—and if that wasn't disturbing enough, he somehow managed to replicate a weaponized spell to obliterate her minions. Since when were humans so… resourceful?

Watching from the surveillance room, Abaddon silently weighed her options. She couldn't kill him even if she wanted to—his death would only generate a demon on par with the Knights of Hell, and he wasn't likely to be subservient. She still fancied his body, but how would she restrain him long enough to remove his tattoo? She didn't mind a fair fight, but it wasn't just her life on the line. Not anymore. Her master was depending on her for his freedom. She had to be cautious.

Pursing her lips, she turned on her heel and marched out into the corridor. Dean was currently approaching cell block 1-B. The hellhounds were in cell block 1-D. For all their rabidness, they were surprisingly well trained, so if she ordered them to subdue the man without seriously harming him, they would obey. And while he was distracted, she would make her move.

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Aren't those demon bombs wonderful? I can't believe they're only in three episodes. (We Need to Talk About Kevin, A Little Slice of Kevin, and Torn and Frayed.) They're super handy, but I guess the ingredients are hard to find. Anyway, I hope you liked this chapter. I'm always nervous about the action scenes. I want to do them justice!_

 _ **Please Review!**_


	18. Hatred

**SPN**

The cell block was long, dark, and frigid, but Dean barely noticed. His eyes were adjusting nicely, and he didn't mind the cold—it kept him alert. By all rights, he should probably be concerned. Since when did he have such exceptional night vision? Considering the sinister ambience of his surroundings, he should also be on guard—not so relaxed. The doors to the cells—with their rusty bars—were all wide open, which gave potential prowlers a couple dozen places to lie in wait. For all he knew, he could be walking into an ambush.

And so what if he did? He could use the excitement.

Keeping a sharp lookout for signs of life, Dean casually made his way to the end of the wing. On the far wall, he happened to glimpse a familiar spray-painted Enochian sigil that no doubt contributed to the prison's angel-proofing. If he tampered with it, along with any others he might find, perhaps Castiel could gain entry. It wouldn't hurt to have his help.

Then again, Abaddon already had Sam for leverage. If she somehow managed to nab the angel, she'd have twice the advantage. Why take that risk? Dean was stronger on his own. The fewer distractions, the better.

Turning around, he began the lengthy trek back to the central hub of the facility. Where was everyone? He couldn't have wiped them all out with just two bombs, could he? That would really suck. He still had a lot of ground to cover, and if he didn't find someone to gank in the next few minutes, he might die from sheer boredom.

As if on cue, something moved in the shadows ahead of him, blocking off the exit. Dean stopped short, squinting warily. Son of a…

Much to his displeasure, he could clearly make out three dark shapes, billowing like smoke, with enormous canine bodies and glowing red eyes. Hellhounds.

Despite the Mark sustaining him, Dean had a deep aversion to the beasts that dragged his soul to the Pit. They were notorious for their invisibility, and it was a wonder he could even see them—he probably had Cain to thank for that—but no amount of luck would ever dampen his fear.

"Hey fellas," he sneered, masking his distress with belligerence. "Where's your mom?"

Realizing their cover was blown, the hounds bared their fangs and growled. So much for the element of surprise. Dean grimaced, falling back a step. He was outnumbered three to one, and while the First Blade could certainly do the job, they would have to be close. Dangerously close.

Oh, screw it.

Dean reached for his pistol. The pack leader snapped a warning, but didn't pounce until Dean aimed the weapon. He fired three times—which only pissed the thing off—and when it was airborne, he quickly sidestepped, slamming the Blade into its shoulder as it sailed by. Unfortunately, the hound's forward momentum yanked the weapon from his grasp, and before he could retrieve it, the next one latched onto his ankle and pulled him off his feet.

He hit the ground hard, expecting a burst of pain as the monster's jaws sank into his flesh—but it didn't bite him. It kept a firm hold on him, but didn't puncture his boot. Meanwhile, the third hound clambered on top of him, pinning him down with its massive paws. Dean groaned as it snarled in his face—damn thing reeked of sulfur.

Suddenly, the lights clicked on, momentarily blinding him. The hound at his ankle gave it a savage jerk, no doubt eager to rip his leg off, but it dutifully refrained. Obviously, they weren't here to kill him—they were here to capture him. Fan-freaking-tastic. Clenching his teeth, Dean grappled wildly against them, but they wouldn't be dislodged.

In the distance, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. "Did you really think you could waltz in here all by yourself and make it out alive?" Abaddon's voice was unmistakable.

Twisting his head around, Dean glared at her hatefully. "I still might, you bitch."

She pouted, feigning sympathy. "Oh, Dean. Your optimism's adorable." She knelt at his side and wrenched the pistol from his hand. "But there's only one way you're surviving the next few minutes, and that's with me inside you."

Dean rolled his eyes, glancing briefly at the fallen hellhound—the First Blade was still lodged in its shoulder—so close, but so far.

Abaddon grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look at her. "I'm glad you came, cowboy. We have big plans for sweet little Sammy, and something tells me he'll be more receptive with you in command. So what do you say?"

Dean fumed at the mention of his brother. "Where is he?" If he could just keep her talking…

"Safe," she purred with a smug smile. "All wrapped up, nice and tight, ready for his master."

Dean scoffed. "You mean Lucifer?" As subtly as possible, he sought his back-up weapon—an angel blade borrowed from Castiel. Crowley wasn't wrong when he called the hunter heavily armed. And thankfully, with the Knight's attention fixed on his face, and with the hound blocking her view, she didn't seem to notice his endeavor. "I hate to break it to you, Abs, but my brother pawned your boss. Lucifer's nothing but a joke to him."

"Is he?" She clucked her tongue, unconvinced. "Then why's he down in the basement screaming through his gag?"

Basement!

Gag?

Dean couldn't help but picture it, and the mental image made his blood boil. "You gagged him?" His fingers found the silver hilt.

"Mmm… I did more than that," she confessed sadistically. "And once I have my way with you, the real party will begin. We're going to enjoy your brother, Dean. Every last inch of him. And I guarantee it'll be the best experience of your life."

Oh, hell no.

Dean whipped up his arm, stabbing the hound on top of him with the angel blade. After all, it worked for Meg, and sure enough, the monster yelped, recoiling in agony while plowing into Abaddon, where it collapsed. This time, Dean managed to yank the blade back out, and he swiftly sat up, hurling it at the remaining hound, directly between the eyes—damn thing dropped dead on his legs, pinning him down with its crushing weight. Crap!

He twisted, stretching his arm out desperately for the First Blade, but it was too far away.

Abaddon recovered quickly. "Fight all you want, love. It's a turn on." She climbed to her feet and flicked her wrist, which sent the carcass flying. Dean scrambled forward, but wasn't fast enough—the bitch immobilized him by simply holding out her hand. "That's enough, Dean. It's over. You're through."

He shook his head. "Like I've never heard that before."

She laughed, using her powers to haul him to his knees. "Oh, baby, we're going to have so much fun together." She crouched in front of him and grabbed the collar of his shirt. "Now then, let's take a look at your tattoo." She pulled, exposing his chest.

Dean stiffened, increasingly perturbed. He couldn't let this happen! If Abaddon used his body to mess with Sam, how would the kid cope? Damn it. When would the forces of hell learn to leave his family alone!?

Thoroughly pissed off, Dean's gaze flicked over to the First Blade. His arm trembled violently as the Mark—burning red—called out to the ancient, unholy weapon.

Abaddon's smile faltered—she must have sensed the danger. "No…"

"Yes," he replied.

This time, when he stretched out his arm, the Mark summoned the Blade straight to his hand. Immediately, he plunged it in the demon's gut. She gasped, shocked and terrified. Her wound flared with golden radiance, and she began to scream. Dean rose steadily to his feet, lifting her off the ground. He watched with callous satisfaction as hellfire consumed her from the inside out, emanating from her eyes and mouth. It took longer than normal, but soon enough, her body sagged, crumpling to the floor in a lifeless heap.

Dean didn't care that she was dead. He didn't care that the hellhounds were dead. The fight was over, but it would never end.

He killed Azazel. His brother killed Lilith. Together, they stopped the apocalypse, shoved Lucifer in his cage, exterminated the Leviathans, and ruined Crowley's reputation. But it would never be enough. Even if they dealt with the psycho angels, a new threat was bound to follow. Nothing ever changed. And Sam…

Sam would always be a target.

It wasn't fair.

Shaking with rage, Dean descended on Abaddon's body and started hacking. Someone had to pay for this, and it didn't matter that she was dead. The hunter was drowning in hatred, and all he could think about was destruction.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	19. Transaction

**SPN**

"She's dead," Castiel observed, breaking the silence with a troubled voice. They both felt it—the massive upheaval of the Blade striking its target. Knights of Hell were formidable creatures, and they would not be killed without ramifications. Honestly, Crowley was surprised not to see an explosion.

He shot the angel a sidelong glance. As usual, Castiel wore a furrowed brow with his puppy-dog eyes—pathetic. If Abaddon really was dead, they ought to be celebrating! "Shall I break out the champagne?"

Castiel glared at him in blatant disgust. "Surely you must know if the Mark of Cain devours Dean's humanity, it will not end well for you."

"Don't be a killjoy, Cas. I appreciate your concern, but what's the worst he can do?" Crowley scowled. "My kingdom's already in shambles, and if he seeks my life, I can rest easy knowing he'll follow in my footsteps—and poor Moose, who tried so hard to cure a demon, will be helpless to stop his brother's final damnation."

"That's what this is about?" The color drained from the angel's face. "Sam tried making you human, so you intend to make Dean a demon?"

Crowley shrugged. "It was the best strategy to eliminate Abaddon. Whatever happens next is just an added bonus."

Castiel took a menacing step toward his enemy, reminding Crowley that he was no longer powerless. Just because he couldn't fly didn't mean he couldn't smite. "I've had enough of your games, you miserable rodent!"

"Sticks and stones, Cas." Always ready for a double cross, Crowley produced his Luger P08 pistol and aimed it at the angel, who immediately recognized it. He froze, catching his breath apprehensively—much to Crowley's approval. "That's right. It's the gun with the angel blade bullets. Did you really think I would hand over that jawbone without some extra protection?"

Castiel clenched his fists, but without his blade and without his wings, he was officially a sitting duck.

Crowley winked. "Congratulations, old friend. You just became my new insurance."

 **SPN**

"Sammy?" Dean ventured down the shadowy staircase into a damp basement that reeked of sulfur. He was quickly met by the sounds of his brother's muffled sobs and rattling chains. A fresh wave of anger swept through him—Abaddon got off easily. He should have tortured her for this.

As he approached the captive, his eyes began adjusting to the dark, and he gradually beheld the nightmarish scene. Sam was anchored to a throne on a raised platform with his wrists chained over his head. A thick gag was wrapped around his mouth, he wasn't wearing a shirt, and his body was covered in sores, most notably the burn over his tattoo. Dean briefly wondered if he might be possessed, but instinctively decided against it. A demon would stabilize Sam's condition; he wouldn't be sweating and shaking and (more than likely) hallucinating if he was possessed.

After scanning their surroundings to make sure they were alone, Dean crossed the cavernous room and scaled the platform steps. "Hey there, kiddo, you with me?" He crouched in front of his brother and grimaced at the smell of charred flesh.

Sam was obviously disoriented, dazed, and helpless. He could barely hold his head up, and he wasn't responding to Dean's presence. The withdrawal must be in full swing. Great. As much as Dean wanted to haul him to safety, he couldn't trust the kid to behave himself. Maybe they should sit tight and ride out the storm. Sam couldn't be comfortable in these restraints, but he would survive a few more hours, especially now that Abaddon was out of the way.

Seriously!? What the hell was Dean thinking? He couldn't leave his brother like this! Sam deserved better. It was Crowley to blame for this setback, and he's the one who should suffer for it. But first, Dean had to get Sammy home, and if he proved uncooperative, well… Things were different this time. Dean was stronger. He could make the kid comply.

 **SPN**

Sam moaned, waking to the unwelcome sensation of iron rubbing against blisters. God… When did he fall asleep?

Whipping his head up, Sam found himself back in Abaddon's makeshift "throne room." It was lit by dozens of flickering candles, and much to his relief, the Knight of Hell was gone. The chains around his legs had been removed, and now, someone was positioned behind the chair, working on the locks to the chains around his waist. It was an encouraging development, but every time the chains moved, they aggravated his raw skin.

Wondering who was behind him, Sam tried to ask, but the damn gag was still stuffed in his mouth. "Mmppff?" Why the hell would someone release him without removing the gag? Wasn't that usually step one?

"Oh, good," came his brother's familiar voice. "I was starting to wonder if you were ever gonna stir." Sam tensed at the subtle cruelty in Dean's tone. When he strolled back around the chair to regard the prisoner—for Sam suddenly felt as vulnerable as ever—he smiled smugly. "Hiya, sport." His eyes turned yellow.

Oh, crap! Sam recoiled frantically, shaking his head in disbelief. No! No way! Azazel was dead. Dean killed him. And even if he somehow came back, Abaddon wanted Dean for herself. She wouldn't let another demon possess him, would she?

But the moment his brother leaned over him, tenderly brushing the hair from his face, all thoughts of reason went right out the window. Sam's breathing hitched, and he squirmed miserably while averting his eyes.

Dean—Azazel—closed in to whisper, "I'm proud of you, Sammy. You lost your way there for awhile, but you came back to us, and now, our beloved father has returned from exile."

Lucifer…

"That's right," Azazel went on, relishing Sam's distress. "Abaddon found the rings. She released the King, and he graciously restored his most loyal subjects. Myself. Darling Meg. Alastair. Ruby."

Sam glanced up in horror. Ruby!?

Azazel winked, and coming from Dean, it was particularly painful. "They're ready for you, champ. They've missed you, and they're excited to see destiny play out. Our father has an important question for you, and like it or not, the time has come to acquiesce."

 **SPN**

Dean didn't know what spooked Sam—considering the withdrawal, he didn't want to know—but it came out of nowhere, and suddenly, the kid was fighting for all he was worth. Dean had to scurry backwards to avoid getting kicked.

"You stay away from me!" Sam's voice was panicked, hoarse, and ragged from the gag. "Don't touch me!"

Dean cursed under his breath. Sam was terrified, and there was nothing he could do to help. Normally, when he had nightmares, Dean could at least wake him up, but drug-induced hallucinations were completely different animals, and Dean hated how powerless they made him feel, even with the Mark of Cain.

By now, the shackles on Sam's wrists were his only remaining impediments. Dean eased over to the side of the throne where he wasn't likely to be kicked and went to work on the lock. It opened easily enough, and he braced himself for an assault, but Sam's arm simply dropped to his side. After eighteen-plus hours fixed in that position, the limb was probably numb. Thank God for small favors.

"No… Stop… Stop!" Sam was in no condition to resist, but he shied away from Dean like a kicked puppy—which was surprisingly upsetting. Dean loved his brother. He didn't want Sam to be afraid of him.

"Hang with me, big guy. I'm going to get you out of here." Dean slipped around the throne and hastily picked the final lock. The shackle snapped open, and he was careful to catch the arm before it fell. "I've got you. I've got you." He draped the arm around his shoulders and lifted. Sam was all dead weight, and if it wasn't for the Mark, Dean might have buckled.

"Let me go!" Sam was practically in tears, but he didn't have the strength or coordination to escape. "Don't! DEAN!"

"I'm right here, Sammy," Dean assured him, dragging him towards the stairs. "Nothing's gonna happen to you. I promise."

 **SPN**

Crowley was waiting for them on the prison steps when they finally emerged from the facility. The sight of the pompous bastard made Dean fume, and he reached for the Blade wedged beneath his belt.

"Settle down, Squirrel," the demon calmly advised, meaning business. "I have Castiel strapped to a chair with needles in his brain. If you don't mind your temper, my underlings have very specific instructions. Understand?"

First Sam. Now Cas?

"You son of a bitch," Dean growled.

"Relax. I'm just here for a quick transaction. You'll thank me for it later. Now then, give me the Blade, and you can have your precious angel back. I'll even zap you and your brother straight home. That's more than fair, wouldn't you agree?"

Dean clenched his jaw.

The Mark on his arm burned bright.

 **SPN**

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	20. Epilogue

**SPN**

The next few hours passed in a fog. Sam knew he was in danger—he knew the man hauling him out of the building—his brother—Azazel—was taking him to see Lucifer, and he had to fight, but his muscles were like jelly, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't keep his eyes open. He was too overwhelmed, too exhausted, and soon he found himself floating in and out of consciousness. Accepting defeat, he gave into the demon's control, succumbing to profound dread.

At one point, he became aware of Azazel carrying him down the steps into the bunker. "I guess the wards protecting this place don't mean a damn when you have the key to the front door…" He chuckled maliciously.

The next thing Sam knew, Azazel was dumping him onto a spring bed with no mattress. The metal coils scratched his skin—as painful as barbed wire—and he heard himself whimpering.

"Ssshhh…" Azazel teased while producing four pairs of handcuffs. He made his way around the bed, fastening Sam's wrists and ankles to the frame. "Good boy. You're gonna be just fine, kiddo. Our father's almost home, and he's gonna make all your problems disappear. Trust me."

It was Dean's voice taunting him, and if he didn't think too hard, he could almost pretend it was Dean in person. He could almost pretend they were kids again, fending for themselves while John was out hunting monsters. Sam would nervously ask when their dad would come back, and Dean would say with conviction, 'Soon.' But it wasn't Dean. It was their mom's killer—their dad's killer—and he allowed Sam no respite.

"You know what your brother really thinks of you?" He knelt on the floor at the head of the bed and dug his fingers into Sam's shoulders, massaging them roughly. Sam cringed, tears in his eyes. "He thinks you're a liability. You're not his partner anymore—if you ever were. You're his burden. And he'll try protecting you cause he has to—it's who he is—it's what he does—Sammy's keeper—but he doesn't trust you—he doesn't depend on you. He thinks you belong at the kiddie table, and let me tell you something, Sam. That's never going to change. He'll be bossing you around till the day he dies, and now that he's cursed with the Mark of Cain, he can get away with it. He's the boss, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it."

He started laughing, squeezing Sam's shoulders in amusement.

 **SPN**

"Dean," Castiel said softly as the hunter finished cuffing his delirious brother to a cot in the bunker's dungeon. All things considered, Sam was in good shape. Castiel was able to heal his physical injuries, Dean was able to dress him in a plaid shirt, and while they had no choice but to lock him down, it wouldn't be for much longer. The demon blood was almost out of his system, and then he'd be back to normal. They should be relieved… but Dean was still visibly upset.

"I'm sorry," Castiel continued. "I was careless, and Crowley…"

"You don't have to apologize," Dean interrupted, glancing up at him with haunted green eyes. "I'm not angry." Against all expectations, he somehow found the strength to resist the Mark by relinquishing his weapon, and Crowley—ever the crossroads demon—kept his end of the agreement. Castiel was set free, and the trio found themselves safely back in Lebanon. "Honestly, I'm glad it went down the way it did. Crowley's a dick, but we can trust him to hide the Blade somewhere I'll never find it, and that's a good thing. It was turning me into Cain, and I can't…" He trailed off, shaking his head.

Castiel sighed. "Don't be so hard on yourself, Dean. You are nothing like Cain. You have proven that time and time again."

"You don't know how it felt…"

"How it felt is irrelevant. The fact is, you and Sam have always stood by each other, despite angels, demons—even betrayal. You've always had each other's backs. That is something Cain will never understand, and that will sustain you through this ordeal."

Dean looked skeptical. "God, Cas… I hope you're right."

 **SPN**

When Sam finally came to, he was shivering, even under a blanket. His head was throbbing, and he could barely move, but he was resting on a comfortable mattress with a soft pillow, and his mouth was thankfully unobstructed. No more gag.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he scanned his surroundings, and immediately recognized the room. He was in the bunker, which hopefully meant he was free. Dean found him. Everything would be okay.

Please, God… Let everything be okay.

Moaning, he tried to raise a hand to rub his head, but something snagged his wrist, holding it down. Shackles? He felt a momentary rush of panic, but then remembered his previous withdrawals. Apparently, he suffered some nasty seizures, forcing Dean, Cas, and Bobby to restrain him for his own safety. Good… He didn't mind the handcuffs as long as he had his brother watching over him.

Instead of Abaddon. Or Azazel. Or Lucifer.

Licking his dry lips, Sam glanced towards the sealed shelves separating the dungeon from the archival room. "Dean…?" His voice wavered weakly. His throat ached from shouting. He tried again. "DEAN!"

No answer. Depending on how long it took him to recover, Sam couldn't blame Dean for retreating upstairs. It's not like he deserved his brother's care. He was a freak, and Crowley was right. He would never redeem himself.

Feeling his face contort in grief, he slammed his head against the pillow and waited quietly for someone to check on him.

After ten or fifteen minutes, the shelves were drawn back. Sam looked up, and there—at last—was Dean.

Their gazes met, and for a long moment, neither of them moved.

What now? Was Dean angry at him? He should be, after the way Sam behaved. Since losing Kevin, they were both so… self-righteous and pissed off. Sam in particular. But that was nothing new. Sam was always angry.

" _It's me. It's inside me. I'm mad… all the time… and I don't know why."_

He prayed for the trials to purify him, but then he failed, and nothing changed. Nothing ever changed. He was beyond saving.

"Well, I know that expression," Dean finally said, breaking the silence. He crossed over to the desk and picked up a chair and a water bottle. Moving to Sam's side, he sat down and took a deep breath. "Listen to me. It's not your fault."

Sam looked away.

"I mean it," Dean insisted, opening the bottle. "Sam, you've done more for this world than anyone. You took a swan dive into the cage. You sacrificed everything, and you were willing to do it again to close the Gates of Hell. I'm the one who stopped you. That's on me. Okay? It's not your fault." He held out the bottle. "Here. You should drink this."

Sam didn't have the energy to complain. He glanced at the water, and when Dean held it to his lips, he drank as rapidly as he could. Dean had to force him to slow down.

"Just take it easy. You're going to be okay."

When he had enough, Sam turned his head and squirmed restlessly. "How long am I going to be handcuffed?"

"Let's give it another hour, just to be safe."

He nodded. "Dean… I'm sorry."

"I forgave you a long time ago, Sammy," his brother assured him. "And someday, I hope you'll be able to forgive me."

"What are we going to do now?"

Dean smiled sadly. "What we always do. We carry on."

 **SPN**

As promised, an hour later Dean removed the handcuffs and helped Sam to his feet. They trudged out of the dungeon and to the library, where Castiel served them both fresh soup. Despite the angel's healing abilities, Sam was still depleted and would need plenty of nourishment over the next few days. Detoxing demon blood took quite a toll on his body, but with Dean and Castiel providing for him, he felt some of his anguish begin to fade. It would take awhile to fully heal—Abaddon was not gentle with him… But she was dead now, and Sam was finally, thankfully, home.

 _ **THE END!**_

 _ **Please Review!**_ _I had such a blast with this story, and I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please share your thoughts. I always look forward to hearing from you. :-)_


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